So now we come to the end. Apologies for making you wait a bit longer but this chapter unfurled into a very respectable nine inch- er, thousand plus words if that's any consolation. Thank you and thank you to the radiant talent that is my beta and friend Lyrium Flower - this is her fic as much as mine and I couldn't have done it without her.

Special mentions to Mirith Griffin, braxy29, Elfenwesen, mykardia, Dark knightress, TsylvestrisA, blackm00n5, Dandy Fairy Lily, NivelKenival, The Random Panda, Enaid Aderyn, , Zarra Rous, starcrossedstanzas, lonewolf001, CharlionEM, tardisinthesgc, Pauly4life, Belinasegg, the shine inside you, xIrelandx for your support and kind comments. Also thanks to those of you favourited and alerted, it all helps. And without further ado...

Slash, SherlockxJohn

Five Times Sherlock Came In His Pants...And The One Time He Didn't

Six

General Practice is not what it used to be. In the old days you could slap on a jacket with elbow patches, dispense valium like it was going out of fashion and get away with saying things like 'pull yourself together, woman, there's absolutely nothing wrong with you' to the profoundly depressed. These days it's all watchwords and sound bites 'patient agendas', 'communication skills' and 'reflective practice'. All GPs are encouraged to reflect on their consultation in the hope it will make them better doctors and not eventual nervous wrecks. They are forced to think about how they appear to their patients, the reactions they inspire and why they act the way that they do towards certain people. No part of the psyche is left unpicked; everything is dissected and laid bare.

When he first started in General Practice John was aware it was not a speciality he ever expected to end up in. In fact it had been Sherlock who pointed out that he'd clearly only got the locum post because Sarah fancied him. Normally it took two years, numerous jobs, a few exams and a lot of paperwork to retrain but Sherlock claimed she'd overlooked the fact that he might well be the next Harold Shipman because she wanted a go on his stethoscope. In the end he turned out to be actually quite good at the whole business of GP-ing, the times he turned up to work anyway.

The endless reflecting wasn't too much of a problem as he fancied he knew himself pretty well already.

Not well enough, clearly.

John slumped in the far corner of the taxi, head resting gently on the window, and reflected. After his sudden and disturbing realisation the night before, sleep had understandably eluded him. He'd just been dropping off, long after the sun had risen, when a furious banging on his door had nearly sent him through the roof.

"For God's sake, what is it?"

"Lestrade. Case." Came the terse reply. Footsteps receded on the landing before returning quickly. "Coming?"

John had gone scarlet before realising there was a door between them but still he clutched the duvet a little more tightly around himself before replying. "Give me a minute."

When he'd appeared in the living room Sherlock had swept a curious eye over him before brushing past in a swirl of coat and heading downstairs, jiggling the front door impatiently as John followed, head still muzzy from lack of sleep, and ushered him through.

Once safely ensconced in a cab, John had promptly turned away and pretended to fall asleep, his mind immediately drifting back to the events of the previous evening as it couldn't seem to help itself recently. Now that he knew what he'd done, what he'd made Sherlock, er, do, however inadvertently, he seemed doomed to an endless replay accompanied by frankly alarming embellishments on his part, mostly involving continued tussling and eventual sheet removal. Where on earth had all of this come from? He carefully picked over his self-image and preferences including school crushes and army experiences and found nothing to explain his sudden interest in Sherlock's indisputably male form. Bugger he thought, curling in on himself slightly and hoping the man next to him hadn't picked up on his hitched breathing as a parade of lurid images jack-booted through his mind. One section of his brain prodded at the epithet tentatively and he shoved it under an alternate pile of swear words, feeling very warm indeed.

Maybe I'm repressed. In denial. Irene Adler's words floated through his mind, amused and intrusive in the dank of an old power station.

- We're not a couple –

- Yes you are -

- For the record, if anyone out there still cares, I'm not gay –

- Well I am. Look at us both –

Bloody woman he thought crossly, but maybe she had something-

The taxi screeched to a halt and his head bounced off the window to an amused glance from his companion. Sherlock was just being, well, Sherlock this morning, gaily indifferent to everyone else, immersed in the excitement of a fresh case. John scowled at him and climbed out of the cab, trailing behind like a truculent schoolboy as they made their way into NSY and towards Lestrade's office.

The DI was slouched in his usual chair and beckoned them in through the glass, a pointless gesture as Sherlock would have bounded in regardless like a six foot toddler on a sugar high but it gave the illusion of control to his army of minions.

"You remember Dimmock, don't you?" Said Lestrade, gesturing to a sandy haired man who stood near the window. "He's helping us out on this one."

"Yes," replied John with a smile, stepping forward and holding out a hand to the younger man only to be barged aside by Sherlock, seemingly intent on the case files covering Lestrade's desk. "Nice to see you again," he smiled apologetically at Dimmock while directing a murderous glare at his flatmate.

"Mr Holmes-"

"He's not required," said Sherlock, without so much as a glance in his direction.

"Well I require him," said Lestrade firmly. "He's given us good Intel so far, it's as much his case as yours. And no, you don't get a choice. Take the case, don't take the case, he stays either way."

John smirked to himself as he watched Sherlock's brief internal struggle. Must be a good one for him not to argue. He settled back and let his attention wander as they flipped through the notes, both DI's doing their best to answer the brusque, apparently random questions thrown at them by the pacing detective.

Greg would be described as an attractive man. Distinguished. John frowned. Okay, let's see. Man shaped. Bit on the short side. Regular features. Never been that keen on brown eyes but that aside… He tried summoning up an image of the DI clad only in a sheet and his mind rebelled. Right, well I don't think he's my type.

He turned his attention to Dimmock who was leaning over the desk, pointing at a page and gesturing. Taller, yes. More athletic, easy-going, too deferent, needs backbone. Nice face. Could do with a better fitting suit. He moved his attention down a bit. I'm fairly sure that's a nice arse for a bloke.

But Dimmock also failed the sheet test. Maybe I need more data. Jesus, I'm beginning to sound like him. John rubbed his forehead and sighed, looking up to find Sherlock's gaze sharp on him, eyes narrowing fractionally before he turned his attention back to the sheaf of papers in his hand.

"Dull," he remarked. "And obvious. Inside job, items likely stored in warehouse close to sites of distribution. Gang involvement, probably Eastern European judging from the execution methods used. Follow the concierge."

"Stake-out," exclaimed Dimmock, rubbing his hands together.

"Not worth my time," sniffed Sherlock, closing the file with a decisive snap. Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"I'll come," said John, riding a wave of mild anxiety at being once again alone in the flat with Sherlock. "If that's allowed. Fancy a night out."

"Don't see why not," said Dimmock, shooting him a quick grin. "More the merrier. Why don't we meet you-"

"Hackney Museum. Eleven o' clock," snapped Sherlock, sweeping towards the door and ushering a surprised John out with a shove to the shoulder. "We'll meet you there."

The door swung to behind them, Lestrade's confused voice drifting faintly through.

"What concierge..?"

They exited NSY at speed. Sherlock with one proprietary hand on John's arm to not so subtly frogmarch him down the steps and towards the main road all of which did nothing for the burgeoning hangover-induced headache that was starting up a persistent throb behind his eyes.

"So what was that all about?"

"What was what all about?"

"The 'it's not worth my time' bollocks immediately followed by the weird about-turn." John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You heard them," Sherlock peered up the road looking for all the world like an extremely well dressed meerkat, "they didn't even know which concierge to follow."

"What?" John screwed up his nose in confusion. "But that was after you-"

"Taxi!" Bellowed Sherlock in the direction of a cab two hundred metres up the road.

"You know, I fancy a stroll," attempted John, feeling mildly nauseous.

"Don't be ridiculous, it's going to rain and it's miles to the nearest tube station."

"A mile, Sherlock, you're only ever a mile away from a tube station in London." He eyed a passing jogger. Too muscular. "A stroll with people," he said faintly. "Lots and lots of people." He tried unsuccessfully to prise his arm out of his flatmate's iron grip.

"Come along," ordered Sherlock, unperturbed, yanking him towards the slowing taxi. "We have to get ready."

"Ready? We've got seven hours 'til we have to meet Greg and…whatshisname..."

"Precisely."

The cab ride was decidedly claustrophobic. Sherlock for some inexplicable reason had decided to sit opposite a very uncomfortable John who had to resign himself to occupying a tiny space in the corner and people watching out of the window, trying to avoid the other man's appraising stare as much as possible.

"You're nervous."

"I'm hungover."

"You're only exhibiting mild signs of dehydration, not enough to cause the obvious tremor in your hands nor the increased heart rate. Therefore-"

"Don't," John threw up a hand, "just…don't."

"You're still angry with me."

"I'm fine. We're fine. I don't want to go over this again."

"Surely-"

"Sherlock."

For a moment it looked as though Sherlock would argue but he merely thinned his lips and turned his gaze on the passing cityscape. Mercifully the rest of the cab ride was spent in silence, John hyper-aware of those eyes turning on him intermittently as he tried to avoid any incriminating thoughts from taking up residence in his brain, however unformed they might be. He all but threw himself out and through the front door, stopping in the lounge to scoop up the laptop and toe off his shoes on the way to his bedroom. He turned to find Sherlock loitering warily in the hallway.

"Tea, John?" he asked softly, not moving as John tried to circumvent him despite the narrow space.

"No thank you. Excuse me-"

"Where are you going?"

"Think I'll go lie down for a bit. Didn't sleep well."

"Really." John held himself still as Sherlock regarded him in consideration. Oh God it's written all over my face isn't it? John Watson has been thinking about naked men. Specifically naked Sherlock. He's going to know, he's going to figure it out, just…just keep your thumbs still. And don't look to the side. Or is it down-

"John."

"I'll see you in a little while," he managed, edging around Sherlock who tracked his hasty exit, hurrying up the stairs and closing the door firmly behind him.

A few hours of sleep and he woke feeling calmer and faintly ridiculous. So what if you've been, you know, he rolled his neck nervously, thinking naked thoughts. It's hardly surprising given the situation. Let it go. He's not going to say anything, you're certainly not going to say anything. Ever. God, how on earth would you even broach the subject? Hey, Sherlock! Remember when I threw you down, sat on top of you and made you- ?

"Gah." He rubbed his heated face a few times before drawing himself upright with a decisive clearing of the throat, setting off downstairs towards the living room. Nothing's changed, in a few days' time things will be back to-

His train of thought came to a screeching halt and promptly derailed at the sight of Sherlock sprawled carelessly on the sofa, one arm flung above his head, the other resting on his stomach, face tucked into the back of the couch. Drifting motes surrounded him, luminous in the mid-afternoon sun. A strip of pale skin peeked from below a freed shirt hem and long bare feet twitched, looking oddly vulnerable against the dark of his trousers. A breeze tracked in through the open window, a breath of cool against John's flushed face.

He said it was going to rain John thought absently, repressing a faint shiver. He picked up the nearby dressing gown and draped it over Sherlock's feet, moving quietly to pull the window shut. He turned back to gaze down at the sleeping man, taking in the peaceful expression wiped clean of its usual austerity, the soft, slack mouth, the tumbling hair and the sharp planes of a face heartbreakingly youthful in repose. His eyes moved down over the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the exposed skin of his belly, smooth under the waistband of his fitted trousers. Despite himself he found his eyes tracing his hips, slipping guiltily over his groin and down those long, long legs, a slow appraisal he'd certainly not allowed himself to dwell on too deeply before and one that was edged with both affection and uncertainty.

He glanced out of the window again, blinking against the glare, and watched the movements of passing people and cars, thoughts drifting and unfocused, basking in the warmth and silence, Sherlock's slow, even breaths washing over him. This is us he turned to watch the other man again as he snuffled faintly into the sofa, long fingers trailing across his abdomen in sleepy abandon. Just this.

"Is there tea?" Murmured Sherlock, opening an eye. John flinched, shifting his gaze back to the street outside hurriedly. "What are you looking at?"

"...people." John cleared his throat.

"People," repeated Sherlock, drawing wayward limbs into a sitting position and yawning before shooting him A Look from the corner of his eye. "Anyone in particular? Earlier you seemed rather fixated on-"

Fuck. "Tea?" John scurried to the kitchen, feeling twin lasers burn a trail from his spine up the back of his neck. He busied himself in the kitchen with kettle, mugs and extensive cupboard scavenging, every sense on alert for a Sherlock Approach and so it was with a vague sense of anti-climax that he re-entered the lounge with steaming cups to find it empty of consulting detective. Thank goodness. He set a mug down on the bureau out of habit if nothing else. Dodged a bullet there.

But the thought was half-hearted at best and he pottered back to his bedroom feeling oddly deflated.

Several hours and a good amount of frankly disturbing male dating sites later John finally admitted defeat and closed his laptop with a sigh, rubbing his face. As if in response there was the tell-tale click of Sherlock's bedroom door opening and quick footsteps along the first floor landing.

"Ready?" Asked Sherlock without looking up, intent on pulling on his gloves as John rounded the stairs. He dithered briefly over which coat to wear, handing Sherlock a scarf absent-mindedly.

"Better wear the dark one. Full moon tonight." There was a brief pause. "That ridiculous neck'll stand out like a belisha beacon," John qualified to an enquiring quirk of the eyebrow. "Not very stealthy." He went back to perusing his small selection of outerwear, ignoring his fidgeting flatmate.

"Oh, come on. Take that one, it's going to rain."

"You said that earlier and it didn't. We've got ages, you told Greg eleven o' clock."

"This is a police operation not a night on the town. I don't think Greg will care much what you're wearing." Sherlock dragged a coat impatiently off the hook and shoved it at him. "Despite what you may imagine."

"What's that supposed to mean?" John muttered irritably as he was herded down the stairs and out the front door in a flurry of wool and cashmere.

"Taxi."

By the time they reached Hackney the sky had clouded over and rain was beginning to spatter the pavements. Sherlock exited the taxi and threw his head back theatrically, extending a hand. John rolled his eyes and turned his collar up, eyes scanning the area around the museum, catching sight of an unmarked car parked nearby which promptly flashed its lights at them.

"Sherlock." He touched his arm to get his attention and strolled over, squinting as it began to rain in earnest, the other man following closely behind.

"Evening." Lestrade popped his head out of the passenger window. "God, it's pissing it down. Get in."

"No, thank you," replied Sherlock stiffly. "I'd rather not have my synapses melted by your regrettable taste in what passes for popular music these days. I'll wait down that side street. Less chance of missing our man." He turned and stalked towards a poorly lit alley. "Come on, John," he threw over his shoulder. Dimmock stuck his head out of the driver's side.

"You're joking, aren't you? Come on you'll get soaked. We can see well enough from here." He reached behind and opened the back door. "Might as well wait with us."

John eyed Sherlock's departing back indecisively. I should make sure he stays out of trouble. He scratched his chin. Then again, alone in a darkened alleyway with Sherlock might not be the best idea given the recent situation. Oh bugger it, he'll be fine. "Staying here," he called after him and ducked into the warm car. Sherlock's steps slowed for the briefest moment and then he was gone, striding into the darkness of the side street without bothering to acknowledge John's parting comment.

It continued to rain heavily and the car was soon uncomfortably hot, John shifting guiltily in the back at the thought of what was surely a drenched Sherlock by now. He peered through the downpour past a dozing Lestrade; there no movement along the deserted road apart from spreading puddles. Then his phone bleeped making him jump, Lestrade snorted and snapped alert.

Came round the back. Pursuing. Alleyway – SH

"Shit," John leapt out of the car and sprinted in the direction Sherlock had taken. Muted sounds of scuffling trickled out of the darkness ahead. "Sherlock!" Through a sheet of driving rain he saw two figures grappling against the wall and accelerated, feet pounding the slick pavement. Then a glint of steel, a flash of light and one deafening crack. A tall figure crashed bonelessly to the ground, black coat fanning out around him.

"No, no, no! Sherlock!"

John barely registered the pale, pockmarked face contorting with surprise as he put his head down and charged, yelling, as the gun came up again. He barrelled into him, both men tumbling headlong, the weapon skittering away into the darkness. Enraged beyond all reason, John lashed out with fists and feet, grabbing whatever he could reach and laying about him, screaming a nonsensical stream of gibberish as he attempted pummel the other man into the rain soaked ground.

Unfortunately his opponent had not only bad skin but also combat training and a cooler head, eventually managing to elbow John in the throat. He folded, was kicked squarely in the chest and skidded across the concrete, dazed, rapidly retreating footsteps in counterpoint to the ringing in his head.

"Sherlock," he rasped, coughing and pawing at the sodden pile in the middle of the alley, half blinded by the stinging rain on his face. "Are you-? Sherlock-"

The still figure suddenly came to life, arms looping around his chest and pulling him upright. Sherlock's pale face emerged from the background of his foggy vision, streaming with water, tendrils of hair plastered to his forehead. John seized a fistful of coat. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine."

"Your face is bleeding, let me look at you-"

"Just a graze. Had him off balance, would have finished him if you hadn't charged in like a bloody idiot."

John shoved him back furiously. "I thought he'd shot you. Jesus! I thought the bastard got you!" He rolled to his feet, sore and stumbling as his ribs protested. Sherlock rose easily, wrapping his coat around him and reaching for his phone.

"Let's hope Greg can head him off," he snapped. "Would hate to think all this work has gone to waste because you decided to play hero."

"Oh right. Yes." John nodded a few times in succession. "I'm the one who buggered off by himself- "

"- because you preferred to stay in the car with your two favourite policemen –"

" – again – "

"He's not replying to my texts. Phone him."

"You phone him!"

Sherlock made a grab for John's jacket, reaching inside only to have two hands curl vice-like around his upper arms, slamming him back against the wall of the alleyway. He glared down at him, blinking water from his eyes and bared his teeth. "Again, John? This is becoming a bit of a habit, isn't it?"

"I don't. Bloody. Care." He glared up at him, panting. "I thought you were dead, Sherlock. You bloody idiot." He dropped his head, butting him hard in the chest. "You stupid bastard I thought-" He yanked him forwards again before slamming him back against the wall, hard, feeling the taller man's breath hot against his cheek, both of them quivering with tension. "I thought I'd lost you."

Peering up through torrents of water John marshalled his nerves, squared his shoulders and looked at his friend, really looked at him. Not the curious inspection of a sleeping man, not the admiring once over of the erstwhile colleague nor even the worshipful gaze of the continually astounded. For the first time ever, despite the fear and fury raking through him, John allowed himself to properly see Sherlock Holmes.

He'd always been aware Sherlock was magnetic, a force of nature - just being in his company was exhilarating, electrifying, frustrating, he'd always liked the way he made him feel, he'd just never thought of him as an object of desire. Awe-inspiring and unsettling, yes, like watching a lightning storm or a stalking predator, but never as a sexual being. Not, that is, until Irene Adler came along with her amped up sexuality and her fascination and her bloody insight, muddying up his nicely labelled, clearly defined views on their odd relationship. Was it only then he'd started noticing?

His gaze moved over furrowed brow down to long, rain-soaked lashes, clumped together starfish-like. The pale, patrician face was set, not a single movement betraying what was going on behind implacable glacier-blue eyes. John continued his slow appraisal, aware of being rapidly scrutinised, deduced and judged and all the while, the silence stretched. Neither man moved even as water continued to stream down both of their faces, eyes locked on the other.

It occurred to John suddenly that Sherlock was allowing this stand-off to continue, that he could have shrugged him off easily but he didn't. He simply stood there, still and watchful, tension thrumming from every pore, the air as charged as it had been the evening before except that this time, this time he was waiting, that perhaps he had always been waiting, for John to make the first move.

"Huh."

Sherlock shifted minutely under his hands although he still didn't pull away.

"John-"

"Shut up. Not a word." John reached up, grabbed a handful of curls at the back of his neck and tugged him down, shoving a knee between Sherlock's thighs and pinning him in place. He gazed into wide wintry eyes, saw the pink mouth go slack, chest heaving against his as the sodden coat unfurled dark wings around them both. John gave a savage grin and thrust his hips forwards, relishing the sharp inhale of air as he felt a firm length press against him. He slid the hand that wasn't gripping waterlogged hair around his lower back and heaved him hard against his thigh.

"John." Sherlock ducked his head and he gave a soft moan in response, hands coming up to rest on his chest. "Wait-"

"I don't think so," gasped John, circling his hips slowly. "I've worked out a few things, you see." Sherlock's head fell back to thump against the wall, teeth buried in his bottom lip.

"God."

"Flatterer."

He made one last deliberate press, revelling in the faint whimper it elicited and then released sodden hair, trailing his fingers down the back of the warm stretch of neck below. He flattened a palm against the planes of Sherlock's chest, feeling muscles twitch and jump under his fingertips and then smoothed downwards, mapping contours, the dips and hollows of unfamiliar terrain. He stole a look at his flatmate's upturned face, careless of the driving rain, eyes closed, bottom lip reddened and swollen and felt a warm throb of arousal in response.

Beautiful whispered a faraway voice he dimly recognised as his own.

He tugged out his shirt and stroked experimentally across the strip of belly that tantalised him earlier – was it really the same day? - feeling Sherlock sag against him, knees buckling under the weight of sensation. Eyes still tightly squeezed, he gave a soft groan and then dipped his head to seek John's mouth, lips sliding messily against his jaw and fingers biting deep into his sides as if afraid letting go would cause his solid warmth to melt away into the darkness and rain.

John turned his face away and heaved in a breath, trying to steady himself, the hair on the back of his neck rising as Sherlock panted into the curve of his shoulder, steam clouding the air around them. He moved his hand down further, hesitating briefly before pressing gentle knuckles against the warmth of the other man's arousal, smiling at the shuddering gasp it produced.

"I thought...you said-" John hummed with pleasure as Sherlock's back arched briefly and he trembled, long hands closing on his shoulders. "You're not-"

"I'm not," replied John distantly, intent on the slow movements of his hand and the body pressed tightly against him. "I'm not interested in men at all."

Sherlock froze, fingers digging convulsively into damaged muscle and John stiffened, crying out in unexpected pain before there was a whirlwind of movement and he was suddenly on his back, confused and dizzy, rain stinging his face, once again left with nothing except the sound of running footsteps fading into the distance.

"Wait-"

He sat up, looking around wildly, but Sherlock was gone.

"Shit, shit, shit. Sherlock!" Skidding to a halt at the mouth of the alley he scanned up and down the street for any signs of fleeing detective but there was nothing; even Lestrade's car had departed, presumably trying to head off their target. He started to jog back in the direction their taxi had taken earlier, only half remembering the streets which were now almost unrecognisable in the heavy rain, scrabbling in his pocket for his phone.

"Stupid bastard, you didn't let me-" He stopped in dismay. His phone was now a sad, crushed thing, the screen completely shattered, a casualty of the boot in the chest he'd received from the pockmarked fugitive. "For the love of fuck!" He picked up his pace, ignoring protesting ribs, trying to find a main road. Bloody hell, just don't do anything stupid will you, Sherlock? The insistent pulse of foreboding twisted his stomach as he ran, the image of his friend's set, white face, those wide desperate eyes swirling with arousal and horror seconds before he was shoved away battered him as he frantically searched for a taxi. Don't do anything stupid before I get to finish my sodding sentence.

It was almost two hours later when he arrived back at the flat, hoping against hope that Sherlock had simply bolted back there in lieu of anywhere else, but when he burst in, thundering through each room calling uselessly, uncaring of the 'John, dear, please,' which floated up from downstairs, the place was deserted. Where else would he go? Mycroft, maybe Mycroft would - Bugger, no phone. He headed back downstairs and stopped in front of Mrs Hudson's door, trying to compose himself enough to form a coherent sentence. Maybe if he stood proximate to a landline for long enough Mycroft would call and tell him where his idiot of a brother had-

He paused in the act of raising a hand to bang on her door. Smoke. He sniffed tentatively. Definitely cigarette smoke.

The thing about smokers is that they think a simple plugging of gaps will hide the tell-tale smell of smoke. Unfortunately any non-smoker, especially one who has spent the last few months being hyper-vigilant for signs of a lapse cannot be fooled by anything short of a catastrophic nasal injury or at the very least a nasty dose of sinusitis. John followed his nose along the ground floor corridor and to the little door of 221C. For a moment he closed his eyes and rested his forehead on it with profound relief before pushing it open. There was slight resistance and he gave a huff of amusement when he saw that a long, grey coat was acting as a temporary and ultimately useless draft excluder but sobered quickly on seeing the figure huddled in the damp corner of the main room, knees pulled up to the chest and cigarette dangling from one long fingered hand. A small pile of stubs was scattered to one side and the bitter smell of extinguished fag mixed nauseatingly with the heavy scent of mildew in the room.

"Found your stash then," said John, moving carefully towards him. A small column of ash drifted from the end of the cigarette and landed on a scuffed dress shoe.

"You weren't in the flat," he tried.

"Evidently." Sherlock turned his head away and John winced at the hoarseness in that deep voice. He crouched beside him and frowned.

"Sherlock, you're soaked through and it's freezing down here-"

"More pithy observations," he took a quick, angry draw. "Perhaps we'll hear about my lack of coat next, oh, and the fact that I have dark hair. Go away, John."

"No." John reached over and grabbed the cigarette. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Oh, how mature of you," snarled Sherlock, watching as he ground it pointedly beneath one boot.

"Shut up for a minute you great idiot. You realise you ran off before I got to finish what I was saying? There'd be no need for this massively precious sulk and we'd probably be-" otherwise engaged supplied his brain helpfully. He cleared his throat. "So what I was trying to tell you before you stropped off was-"

"I know what you were trying to tell me," Sherlock murmured at the peeling wallpaper.

"No you don't."

"Yes I do," glacial eyes were suddenly inches from his own, voice rising in a ridiculous parody, face contorted. "I'm not gay, Sherlock, I'm not interested in men at all but I'm interested in you."

"Well, yes, actually I was going to say that, but-"

"Stop talking John, you'll only embarrass us both." Sherlock drew in a hissing breath, tugging at damp curls viciously. "I don't care about your little epiphany. I know you worked out what happened the other day, oh bully for you. Want to know how? Oh, yes, Sherlock do tell me, I love sitting at your feet waiting to be fed scraps of information, well, alright John, I've nothing better to do than to enlighten your pitifully underused brain-"

"Now hang on a minute-" said John, easing himself backwards as a hand shot out to fist in his jacket.

"You didn't sleep well meaning you spent a lot of the night going over events but the fact you tried to avoid me rather than waiting for me to soothe your bruised little feelings the next morning suggests that you came to some sort of realisation, one you didn't want me to deduce." Sherlock continued, talking at a point over John's left shoulder, his hand now absentmindedly smoothing down a lapel. "I thought initially you were working up the nerve to move out but you came along to Scotland Yard willingly enough." His lip curled. "Though you spent most of the time comparing the assets of those brainless plods rather than listen to information pertinent to the case-"

"- that's why you decided to come along, you were jealous – "

"I'd rather you didn't postulate, John, it always gets in the way of the facts," snapped Sherlock, fingers tightening again on his jacket. "Your window shopping continued as did your attitude of panic whenever in close proximity to me all of which would suggest that the realisation had compromised your own views on your sexuality and elicited feelings of disgust and confusion at your reactions during and after the event- "

"Sherlock, I'm not -"

"I haven't finished."

"Well, neither have I! How could you think I'd be disgusted with you -"

"Shut up." Sherlock took a breath. "You were confused, unbalanced, likely entertaining involuntary images of me in sexual situations." John coloured at this and Sherlock tilted his head curiously. "A state of mind rather new to you," he finished softly. "You also spent an inordinate amount of time watching me sleep," he quirked an eyebrow as John blushed harder, "sentiment, John, you were trying to reconcile your emotional reactions with your physical ones but it still took the threat of my death to make you realise that you could, in fact, incorporate your affection for me with something else. Something baser, something you like to mask with small acts of terrorism upon my person."

John sighed and scratched his head. "So it's taken you five minutes to say you know I like you. Like you like you. God, you love the sound of your own voice." He gently removed the other man's hand from his coat without letting go of his fingers. "Still doesn't tell me why you ran off."

Sherlock angled his head away from him, expression darkening.

"You turned your face away from me when I tried to -" his fingers twitched in John's and he pulled his hand back, wrapping long arms around his knees. "- to reciprocate. I've never-" He swallowed convulsively. "And when you were…touching...you couldn't even bring yourself to look at me." He swivelled his head, eyes wide and blank, looking unsettlingly like a sleepwalker in the throes of nightmare.

"Sherlock, I wasn't -" faltered John, horrified into incoherency at the blazing hurt suddenly radiating from every angle of his friend's body.

"I understand," Sherlock continued in a low voice. "After all you have limits. You were attracted to the idea of me, managed to convince yourself that it was what you wanted, a rush of emotion enhanced by the thrill of the chase and the threat of death. You played a good game, John," he added bitterly, "but when it came to the point where the idea became the man, became physical, intimate, real, you couldn't bring yourself to go through with it."

"That's not true. You've got it all wrong," John shuffled closer on his knees. "It was too much, I was still adjusting-"

"It was disgust, John. And fear. You got yourself into a situation you didn't know how to get out of without upsetting us both. So I made the decision for you."

"Now you listen to me-"

There was the sudden discordant blare of the doorbell and Sherlock shot up as if propelled bodily, John scrambling after him.

"Who's that?"

"No one you need concern yourself with," Sherlock replied, reaching for the catch. John knocked his hand away and shouldered him aside with a glare before yanking the door open himself. A scruffy man in a trapper's hat stood on the doorstep and both men grimaced at the reek of sour sweat and cannabis suddenly invading the hallway. He grinned widely, showing off several brown stumps of teeth interspersed with alarming gaps.

"Special delivery for Mister Sherlock Holmes," he said in a ridiculously affected voice before sweeping a shallow bow. His smile faltered on meeting John's frozen expression.

"Piss off," he snapped and slammed the door shut, hearing Sherlock's sudden clatter up the stairs behind him. "Oh no you don't," he muttered. He got to his bedroom door just in time, shoving his foot in and ignoring his flatmate's furious kick in favour of forcing his way inside through pure impetus, closing it firmly behind them both.

"Sit down," he gestured at the bed. "Sit down."

"Get out," hissed Sherlock, scrabbling behind him for the doorknob.

"Right." John stepped aside, threw his arms around a slim waist, shifting his weight and twisting despite protesting ribs, and hurled a viciously flailing Sherlock onto his bed, climbing on top and pinning his arms down. He waited there patiently until the furiously bucking, writhing man underneath him ran out of energy and simply lay there, scowling up at him, chest heaving with exertion and sharp cheekbones flooded with colour.

"Here we are again," said John lightly. "You know, I think you may have a point about the acts of terrorism upon your person although it does seem to be the only way I can get you to listen. Plus I'm beginning to think you enjoy having me on top of you." Not deigning to reply, Sherlock settled for tossing his head imperiously. "That man downstairs," he continued, tightening his grip a little on slender wrists, "was he delivering what I think he was delivering?" Sherlock thinned his lips and remained silent, fixing his gaze stubbornly on a point somewhere above John's head. "Because if he was I'm not angry with you, Sherlock." He leaned a little closer, feeling slim hips twitch under his. "I'm not angry but I am very disappointed."

"Spare me."

"And a little bit flattered."

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. "Flattered?"

"Well," John made a show of getting more comfortable, suppressing a grin as Sherlock fixed his gaze on the ceiling with an air of long-suffering but was unable to prevent an involuntary buck when John shifted his weight. "Irene got a low tar fag and you thought she was dead. I got almost an entire pack plus a headlong rush into class A insanity just because you thought I'd rejected you. From you that's practically a proposal. So before I kiss you into next week I want you to tell me."

"Kiss-? What? Tell you what?"

"Tell me what I am to you."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, eyes moving over his face. "Many things," he said eventually. "Some of them even practical."

"So things like tea," said John softly, releasing his wrists, tracing the veins visible under translucent skin. "Toast, washing, antiseptic," he gently stroked the undersides of his arms watching his friend's eyes drift shut, splayed limbs tethered to the bed by invisible bonds. "A source of disapproval, admiration, a pointer for social niceties," he drifted fingers up his torso, counting off ribs one by one. "A gun, laptop, notebook, errand boy," he moved his hands to rest gently on bony shoulders, tracing across clavicles. Sherlock opened his eyes and fixed them on his.

"I don't need any of those things. They don't matter."

"I know."

"You matter, John. You're important. To me."

"I know. I just wanted to hear you say it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We'll add smug to the list of newly developed character traits you've been displaying, shall we?" His expression sobered, eyes flitting over John's serious expression uncertainly. "But-"

"I needed time to adjust, I've adjusted," said John simply. "Now I'm going to kiss you. With intent. Not as a gesture, a display or an experiment, I'm going to kiss you because I want to. Because I think I've wanted to for ages. Alright?"

"Fine," replied Sherlock faintly, eyes widening and then falling shut again as John leaned down and pressed warm lips to his. He stayed there for a few moments, braced over him, feeling the rise and fall of the chest against his, the blow of warm breath across his face before tilting his head slightly. Sherlock obligingly parted his lips, hands coming up to grasp at thin air, fingers flexing; John chuckled into his mouth and reached out to take hold, placing chilled digits around his face before delving his own into the dark curls beneath him. The kiss was slow, exploratory, John taking his time to taste and feel, sliding his lips over the pliant mouth under his own, answering every hitched breath with a hum of pleasure. He ran the tip of his tongue gently along the soft lower lip and Sherlock jerked in surprise, clashing their teeth together. John pulled back slightly.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," muttered Sherlock. He fiddled with the lapel of John's jacket, avoiding his enquiring gaze. John watched him for a moment longer, battling both the urge to point out the recent repetition and a strange mixture of triumph and affection which had him struggling to conceal a completely inappropriate victory dance. First, first, first his unhinged subconscious sang as he took in the sight of the thoroughly ravished - snogged for the first time, ha! - man lying under him limp and breathless, lips and eyes shining as if freshly polished.

"Your smugness knows no bounds, Dr. Watson," said Sherlock, eyes still on his coat and John laughed out loud from pure exhilaration before tipping the other man's chin up with one hand.

"Yes, I am stupidly happy it was me and no-one else. You were right when you said I wanted everything from you. I do." Sherlock's eyes slid up to meet his. "But only as much as you're willing to give. Just promise me one thing," he rolled to one side, tugging at a shoulder so they ended up facing each other. "Don't hide from me."

"Literally?"

"Twat." John shrugged off his jacket. "I mean don't hide anything of yourself from me. You can rant at me, leave me behind, experiment on me, well, up to a point, you're never getting your hands on any of my new shirts," he giggled as a vaguely indignant expression crossed the sculpted face inches from his own before adopting a serious expression again. "But you should never feel ashamed, not with me. I'm pretty sure I've seen the worst of you and I think I can cope," he placed a soft kiss on the corner of the down-turned mouth. "This is all new but I'm still John. I'm not Mr Tediously Self-Interested, whoever the hell he was," he ran a thumb over Sherlock's top lip as he opened his mouth. "When we're here it's you and me, no-one else. You trust me?"

Sherlock closed his mouth with a snap, one hand coming up, fingers and thumb rubbing nervously together. Eventually he nodded, one sharp incline of his head.

"I won't hurt you," continued John. "Not if I can help it. And I won't leave you as long as you need me. But when it's just us, here, like this, I want all of you. Out there you can be whatever you need to be to get the job done but this can't work if you won't let me in."

Sherlock's hand came down and both men watched it weave a slow path before finally coming to rest on John's chest. "But Moriarty," Sherlock's eyes were hooded, his face tight.

"Is out there, I know," affirmed John. "Probably planning his next diabolical afternoon tea. Maybe next time he'll slip something in the custard creams. He can turn up dressed as a maid and try and smother us with doilies, I don't give a flying fuck. Bugger Moriarty."

Both men eyed each other for a moment and then John snorted; a long, loud release of suppressed hysteria that sent Sherlock into reciprocal paroxysms of laughter.

"Do you think that's a viable option for disposing of arch-nemeses?" managed Sherlock between giggles.

"Don't know," gasped John, wiping his eyes. "Pretty sure he won't see that coming though." They both took a deep breath before dissolving again, clutching each other and howling, feeling all the strangeness and tension of the preceding days draining away leaving simply the two of them, Sherlock and John, blinking at each other in profound amusement in the dimness of the room.

"We should get out of these wet things," said John eventually when they had both calmed down and then sniggered. "Oh God I'm waiting for the dodgy synth track to start now." He took in the puzzled furrow which had suddenly appeared between dark brows. "You haven't even-? Oh, never mind, get your clothes off."

"Romance is still feebly kicking I see."

John peered at him. "I meant what I said. If you don't want this now, if you can't give me all of you, I'll wait. But if you won't-" He didn't get to finish his sentence because Sherlock surged against him and his arms were suddenly full of damp detective, fingers tight on his face and lips sliding possessively over his own. God he learns fast he thought fleetingly as a tongue ran along the seam of his lips and tentatively dipped inside, twining with his as he tugged him closer and deepened the kiss. He brought his hands around and scrabbled at the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, eventually giving up and simply pulling it open to a deep groan of mingled approval and dismay as buttons rained down between them, smoothing his hands around acres of silken chest and back before pulling off his shirt and wriggling out of sodden denim. Sherlock thrashed his way out of his own shirt and then stilled, hands hovering over the button of his trousers. John propped himself up on one elbow and slowly rolled him onto his back, trailing fingers down the dipping planes of his abdomen until he came to rest over Sherlock's trembling hands.

"Look at me. It's still John."

Sherlock let out a breath. "Yes." He arched up to find his mouth again and questing hands were suddenly everywhere, stroking at John's waist, finding purchase on his good shoulder, dancing lightly over bruised ribs, exploring, learning, memorising as he allowed John to undo and then with some mildly surprising contortionism, remove his trousers, leaving them both clad only in their underwear. John mouthed his way down the long column of neck and drew a hand up a twitching inner thigh, pausing to drop a kiss in the hollow of a throat, catching the other man's gaze pointedly before moving his hand higher.

"I don't need a mirror-signal-manoeuvre every time you feel the need to make a point, Jo-eeeeesus Christ!"

"Sorry, what was that?" John said innocently, squeezing his way up and down his heavy, warm length. Arousal zinged through him as the alabaster object of his most waking thoughts and more recently his dreaming ones as well, threw his head back in abandon and whimpered, catching an already reddened lip between his teeth. Oh my God thought John in wonder. I want to remember him like this. Just like this forever. Lean, sculpted limbs clutched at him, a dark tumble of hair trailed starkly against white cotton. Eyes that were ever penetrating, documenting and recording were tightly shut and the long body, more beautiful than any Renaissance statue was arched beneath him, lightly sheened with sweat. John licked a nipple thoughtfully, thanking his quick reflexes when the torso underneath him spasmed and nearly cost him some nasal cartilage. A long, low growl almost below the range of human hearing vibrated through Sherlock's chest causing John to laugh with giddy delight. "Sensitive."

"It…would…appear so," gasped Sherlock. "Again. Please."

"For science," John nodded soberly before fastening his lips around a pink nub and swirling his tongue. This time he rode the wave of torso, anchoring himself with one hand curling around the long neck as Sherlock arched and inhaled sharply through his nose, teeth buried so deeply in his bottom lip that John was surprised at the lack of blood thus far. He was aware of a sudden, strangled noise as he ventured below the waistband of dark underwear and closed his fingers on the solid, heavy warmth of his erection. "Need to get these off you," he murmured, knuckles stretching the elastic. "Bloody hell these are soaking, was that the rain or is that all you?"

Sherlock turned his face into the pillow, eyes still tightly shut and shook his head wordlessly, tensing as John removed his hand and inched up his body until he hovered over dark curls.

"Hey," whispered John. Sherlock opened his eyes and heaved in a shuddering breath, drowning him in pools of silver ringed midnight. "If you want we can-"

"I don't want to stop." He turned pleading eyes on John, searching navy depths as if trying to read the future in the haphazard flecks of colour. "But-"

"It's just you and me, remember?" Breathed John. "Let go. I'm here." He leaned down and captured his lips again, feeling a low moan vibrate through the undulating chest under his. Trembling fingers seized his hand and placed it onto springy curls below - and how on earth did he get his pants off without me noticing? - before plucking at John's underwear impatiently.

"Not now," he muttered into warm exhales of breath, nibbling gently on a plush top lip. "Later. I'm terrible at multi-tasking."

"I would have thought," there was a bitten off moan as John began to move his hand in long, smooth strokes, gliding over moistened skin, "that that particular skill was rather a prerequisite for an army doctor."

"Didn't exactly get training for this sort of eventuality," murmured John, seizing an earlobe between his teeth and sucking it into his mouth. "Now I've wanted to do that since the floorboard incident," he added indistinctly, smiling at the sudden wordless exclamation and the profusion of goose-bumps which appeared across the marble chest. He felt the warm shaft thicken in his hand and speeded his movements, shifting as Sherlock rolled to press their chests together and panted into his mouth. His eyes were fever bright and swirling with a myriad of questions, statements and declarations as he frantically sought out John's lips again, fingers closing on his sides, moving up his back, fluttering across his shoulders, unable to settle, stroking, mapping, claiming the expanse of tanned muscle and scars. Each exhale became a low moan which vibrated up John's spine, fanning out to his peripheries and wrapping him in sonorous warmth.

"John," Sherlock pulled his mouth away and buried his face in the juncture of neck and shoulder, body coiled tight as a bow-string. "John-"

"I'm here," he answered, burrowing a hand between them to brush over a nipple, pressing his lips to the damp tendrils of hair curling over the furrowed brow. "I'm here," he repeated as Sherlock tensed, quivered and then cried out, spilling over his hand, shuddering, whispering into his neck, a supplication of "John, John, John" until finally he stilled, lax and heavy against him.

For long minutes there was silence punctuated by gradually slowing breaths until Sherlock roused himself enough to incline his head. "Do you want to- ?" he murmured, eyes half lidded.

"God yes" breathed John, brushing curls out of silvery eyes with an unsteady hand. "But not now. Sleep, Sherlock, you're halfway there already."

"I don't mind. If you want to-" Sherlock made a vaguely suggestive gesture with one long fingered hand.

"I do want to. Whatever it is you're suggesting I absolutely want to but we need…things…"

"Things," repeated Sherlock, dropping a hand to his waist and curling around him like an indolent cat. "You should procure…mmm…things…"

"Tomorrow," John assured him. "I need to visit the cash machine, get a new phone …"

Sherlock gave a noise of sleepy assent, burrowing into his neck and inhaling.

"Are you sniffing me?"

"Mmm. You smell of…" washing powder, tea, antiseptic, shaving foam, me "…you." He dragged open unfocused eyes. "John-"

"Shush. Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow, Sherlock." He tugged him closer, burying his lips in silky locks, delighting in the soft moan and the slide of skin against skin.

"We've got all the time in the world."

END