Warning: Not much. You might die of fluff, though.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. They all rightfully belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the modern adaptation to the ever so brilliant Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. Sadly, I do not even own the title. Bless the world for such geniuses!

This story is inspired by a song called "Undisclosed Desires" by Muse.

I want to reconcile the violence in your heart
I want to recognise your beauty's not just a mask
I want to exorcise the demons from your past
I want to satisfy the undisclosed desires in your heart

Sherlock lay on the sofa, his entire body stretched out in a nicotine-induced haze. Five patches covered the limp arm that hang beside him, the tips of his long, pale fingers almost reaching the floor. His silky blue dressing gown hang loosely around him, not matching with the neat purple coloured shirt, worn with the equally neat black trousers. Sherlock's long, lean body was too long for the small sofa and his bare feet stuck out the end. He wriggled his toes and sighed deeply. The arm that wasn't hanging by his side as if all its bones had disappeared moved from the backrest of the sofa to his forehead, brushing the untidy curls from his eyes. Not that it really made a difference anyway; Sherlock had his eyes closed, and his arm dropped to his side again like a ragdoll. His face was calm and unmoving, he was breathing through his nose and his full lips were relaxed, though the same could not be said for the slight frown that crossed his forehead.

Lost in thought and nicotine, the consulting detective had lain there all day. Nothing exceptionally interesting was going on anyway; on a criminal scale, London was quite peaceful, Mycroft couldn't be bothered to have an argument with, what with all his governmental business, and even John was away from Baker Street.

Sherlock scoffed. John was his flatmate, weren't flatmates supposed to entertain each other? Now here he was, all alone in their flat – his flat, Sherlock still thought, even though they shared the rent – and he was utterly bored. Around noon he had walked up to his desk, consumed with boredom, and opened the drawer in which he kept his nicotine patches. He'd needed something, something, to keep himself from going mad. He'd begged John once for his cigarettes, he was beside himself due to lack of stimulation.

I've never begged for mercy in my life.

Sherlock scoffed again. If anyone was a match for Sherlock Holmes, John Watson was certainly it. Not even Mycroft could restrain him entirely, and he had a secret service.

Anyway, Sherlock had pulled one patch out of the little box and slowly peeled the bit of paper off the sticky side, almost savouring the moment before he slapped it to the skin of his pale forearm. The slight feeling of the nicotine spreading through his body was not enough and in desperation Sherlock had fished another patch out of the box and stuck it next to the first one, after quickly removing the sticky-side-paper. Again, Sherlock felt unsatisfied and soon there were three more patches covering the white, marble skin of his long forearm. Sherlock dragged his eyes across it, inhaling deeply through his parted lips, and thought of the fascinating contrast between the skin-coloured patches and his more than pale arm. Those patches were supposed to be around the same colour, but they were clearly visible on Sherlock's white skin.

John had told him the day before that he liked Sherlock's skin. John had also told him that he liked the pink colour on his cheeks, which Sherlock had gotten because of that first comment. Sherlock had frowned and touched his cheekbones with his equally pale fingers and was surprised to find that his face was a bit warmer than usual. John had chuckled at Sherlock's look of confusion and told him that such a response was normal to a compliment. But Sherlock was not entirely sure it had been the compliment, nor was John. In fact, John had smiled broadly and blushed himself when Sherlock started to inspect his arms and his face.

'Sherlock, you can trust me on my word when I say that your skin is quite beautiful,' John muttered from behind his newspaper. Sherlock stood in front of the mantelpiece, inspecting his face in the mirror. 'In fact, the rest of you is not so bad either.'

Sherlock opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He looked at his reflection and saw his own baffled face. He looked ridiculous. He closed his mouth and tried to speak, stupidly. He didn't know what to say though, and he turned to John with a deep frown between his eyes. 'Are you serious?' he ended up asking. Are you serious? What are you, a fifteen year old schoolgirl who's just been asked for the dance? Great going, Sherlock. Now he'll think you feel flattered. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. But he did feel flattered; blood had definitely rushed to his face and coloured his cheeks, and his heart rate had increased slightly. Not that he had never felt flattered before – John had complimented him dozens of times at a crime scene. But this is not the same, we're not at a crime scene. He's complimented me about my appearance. And I liked it.

Sherlock suppressed the urge to groan. This was not good.

'Yes, I am serious.' John's voice sounded perfectly steady behind his newspaper. Sherlock wanted to see if his face was as steady as his words, but decided against slapping the newspaper out of his hands. Instead, he moved around John's chair, around the newspaper, but John beat him to it. He closed the paper and threw it down onto a side table. 'For God's sake, Sherlock, we're grown men – certainly I can tell you you're attractive! Don't make such a fuss about it.'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He knew what John was trying to say, but he didn't agree with it; he certainly did not think that he was handsome or attractive, as John had put it. Sherlock felt his face get hotter again as he contemplated about John's words.

The Sherlock on the sofa re-contemplated about them again and he felt the blood rise to his brains. John thought he was attractive – me? Sherlock Holmes the consulting detective, (high-functioning) sociopath? And John thought he was... John, who didn't look so bad himself... Sherlock moaned. No, no, no; this was not going the right way! What he had done last night was nothing more than a simple act out of instinct.

'Yes, you can tell me that I am...' Sherlock had not been able to mutter the word. He had taken a step closer to John. 'I don't mind, even if I have to disagree with you. I think those words are more in order if they are said the other way around.'

John had paled and immediately flushed. The dark colour of scarlet on John's cheeks made Sherlock smile and before he knew it, he had placed his right hand on John's cheek. His voice was croaky when he spoke. 'Sherlock, are you saying that I...' His voice trailed off when Sherlock's thumb started stroking his lips and his breathing became unsteady. 'Sherlock –' he managed to squeak out before the detective leant forward and joined his thumb with his lips. It was a gentle kiss for which neither of them had been prepared. John was more turned on by Sherlock's soft lips than he'd ever admit and he kissed back, which made Sherlock realise what he was doing. John suppressed a grunt when the tall man with the beautiful skin and elegant features pulled back from him and opened his eyes – he hadn't realised he'd closed them. A hesitant smile formed around his lips, but Sherlock looked stricken and he quickly backed off.

'Sherlock?' John asked, concerned about his friend. Sherlock looked like a deer captured by the headlights of a car, standing rigidly still in the middle of the living room, eyes wide with disbelief – and fear. When John made the slightest move towards him, Sherlock's whole body trembled and he jerked backwards. 'I'm sorry, John,' he whispered hoarsely. He then retreated to his bedroom, without looking behind him.
Sherlock rubbed his eyes with the mouse of his hands. His mind had landed on this topic again. He stretched again and exhaled dramatically.

Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side...

Oh, how he hated himself.
Sherlock was still sulking over his own misery when he heard the key turn in the lock downstairs. The unsteady steps on the stairs told him it was John. Unsteady – limp's back, at least partly. Took his time from the door-opening to the stairs. Clearly he's uncomfortable about something – Oh.

Sherlock's mind entered a state of panic. What would John say? Would he be mad, or hurt, would he hate Sherlock?

Sherlock moaned – not because of John, but because the amount of adrenaline that shot through his body mixed up with the unhealthy dose of nicotine and suddenly, Sherlock felt sick to his stomach.

'Sherlock!' Sherlock heard John gasp from the doorway. He heard the quick stumble of John's feet – the limp had magically disappeared – and seconds later he felt John's warm hand on his sweaty forehead. 'What have you been doing?' Then, John noticed the patches on his arm. His dark blue eyes grew wide and he shook Sherlock by his tense shoulders. 'Sherlock, for God's sake, five patches? What were you thinking? Get up, get up, I'll make you feel better. This is not good, Sherlock. Three patches at the most, remember?'

'Nrghhh,' Sherlock mumbled as John lifted him up, so he sat up straight. The muscles around his stomach constricted and Sherlock bent forward in pain. The urge to gag became stronger by the second. He felt John's quick fingers pull every patch off and slide on his smooth skin, assessing the situation. John felt for a fever or any other types of discomforts Sherlock could suffer from. Sherlock moaned again and John shook his head, keeping Sherlock steady as the man felt limp beneath his strong arms.

'Drink this,' John ordered and he gave Sherlock a glass of water. He held a wetted cloth to the detective's sweaty forehead as he settled himself back on the sofa, taking Sherlock with him. Sherlock drank without objecting and John rubbed Sherlock's arm with his free hand. 'What were you thinking?' he kept muttering. 'For a minute there I thought you had passed out. Don't do that again, Sherlock, you know full well what the impact of such a stupid action is on your body. Especially yourbody – I told you that you need to eat and sleep more...'

Sherlock listened to John's rant without really paying attention to it. He was still dazed from his overdose in nicotine and a content smile played around his lips. He settled back into John's embrace – by lack of a better word – and nuzzled his nose in John's neck. John immediately tensed and he looked at the top Sherlock's head with a worried frown.

'Sherlock...'

The tone in his voice made Sherlock look up with wide eyes. John smiled at Sherlock's pouting lower lip and pulled him a little bit closer. Sherlock let him, though he still seemed a bit apprehensive.

'We need to talk about last night.'

Sherlock let out a trembling breath. He'd expected as much, but he was still surprised at the panic and nervousness he was feeling. He didn't trust his own voice, so he just nodded.

It was silent for a long while before John started talking again. 'You... kissed me.'

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded again. God, he felt humiliated. He had been the slave of his own human needs, damn them. The needs he had always been able to suppress and avoid, the ones that interfered with his work, with his ability to think clearly.
'Care to explain?' John asked next, now stroking Sherlock's dark, curly hair.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and then decided it'd be best if he just told John the truth. 'I...' he began, his voice high and hoarse.

'I don't really know why I did it. Emotions, it's all very new to me. Everyone's always told me I was such a heartless bastard, everyone at school, university, even my own family.' He spat the last word. He continued in a more quiet voice. 'I am afraid they are right. I am afraid that I am heartless, that I am incapable of feeling any emotions.' Sherlock clenched the front of his expensive shirt tightly, as if he wanted to feel his heart beating underneath his skin. 'I've never had relationships, nor the feeling of wanting one. I could always divorce myself from feelings and I have always thought that I was right in that.'

John listened to Sherlock's story, still stroking the detective's hair for comfort, and his eyes saddened. Sherlock had never really been understood and that had eventually led to him being cut off from the world. John felt for him and wished he had been there in the past to help him.

'But I did have my analytical skill and soon everyone hated me even more for what I deduced about them. I was bullied and the worst part of it is that I didn't even care. I started using my brain for the work of a detective. I got on just fine on my own, doing nothing else than going to crime scenes every day, but I knew somewhere inside my head that I wasn't really happy. I searched for distraction in the form of drugs and multiple times I had overdosed, balancing on the thin thread that was life.'

John shuddered at Sherlock's story; it was horrible picturing Sherlock in the mess that had been his life. It didn't really help that Sherlock knew how to tell a story and used his deep, low voice in a particular way that almost enchanted John. 'That's awful, Sherlock,' John muttered.

'Hm,' Sherlock agreed. 'Again, I didn't care. But thanks to Mycroft I sobered up and got rid of the cocaine. I guess you could say it was because of him that I am still alive.'

Thank God, Mycroft, John thought.

'But then Mike introduced me to you,' Sherlock continued, and John was immediately reminded of why they had started this conversation in the first place. 'At first, I had no particular interest in you. I was just looking for someone to share a flat with, since Mycroft had refused to pay my rent any longer. But the longer I spoke to you, the more I felt like all those people who called me heartless might have been wrong. I started to like you and we even became friends. That was more than I had ever had.'

John couldn't help but to smirk to himself. He had been able to get through to the soft core of Sherlock Holmes, and no one else had – in fact, all those people in the past had helped to create the hard shell that Sherlock had around him. John had never met them, but he hated those people with all his heart.

'But friends don't kiss each other, Sherlock, not like that,' John whispered. Sherlock stiffened beneath his arms and John immediately wished he hadn't said anything. He rubbed the detective's arms softly and waited for him to continue. When he did, it was in a quiet, husky voice that made John melt from the inside out.

'It's been going on for a couple of months,' Sherlock whispered. 'I didn't know what it was when it started. I haven't felt this before and I did not know what to do with it. That's why I put it away, hoping it would all go away. I knew though that that wasn't going to happen. I began to realise it when you went out with Sarah... It was chaos in my head, every part of me wanted to let you have a nice time with a woman and not care about it. But I couldn't shake the thought from my head, I couldn't get rid of it, the image of you and her together consumed me. So I followed you,' Sherlock said, a sheepish smile on his face as he curled himself up, as small as possible, his head resting against John's chest, which was going up and down with steady breaths.

Sherlock seemed to relax while talking about his difficult life and John was grateful that he took the time. 'Eventually I realised what it meant, the thinking about you, trying to impress you, following you on your dates...' Sherlock's voice trailed off and he stared at the floor. 'You told me you thought my skin was nice.'

John waited for Sherlock to say more, but when he didn't John whispered; 'Your skin is nice. I meant it, you know.'

'I don't know what came over me. The light put your face into beautiful shadows and you seemed so... close...'

'You kissed me,' John stated the obvious.

'I kissed you.' Sherlock could barely say the words. They were so soft and John had to point his ears to hear them, but they sent
tingles down his spine.

'I think it's time for you to hear my side of the story,' John said, and he felt Sherlock tense beneath him once more. John pulled
Sherlock's curled up body closer to him.

'You've deduced me, you know almost everything there is to know about me. I was an army doctor in Afghanistan, shot in the shoulder, invalided home because of that. I felt out of place in London. The rush, the danger, it wasn't there. I'll make this short for you, you're rigid, Sherlock! Relax a bit... There.' John smiled fondly. 'Danger isn't the best thing to be addicted to, you know. But I came in contact with it through you and I loved that. Like you, I did not immediately pay attention to you, hell, I didn't even like you at first!' John heard a small intake of breath below him. He cursed himself and went on with his story. 'But by the end of the second day we knew each other, I shot a serial killer to save your life, Sherlock, and you know why? Because I trusted you.'

'You had trust issues,' Sherlock whispered.

'Yes,' John confirmed. 'And I felt connected to you, I already felt we had a bond. We still have it, in fact; it's stronger than ever. But...' Sherlock held his breath. 'I knew – I thought– you were... not unemotional, I knew you could feel sadness, hatred, love. But I thought you didn't love like two people in love do. Like I love you.'

Silence.

'Sherlock?'

Sherlock didn't answer. He was biting his lower lip and his hands were clenched around John's jumper. He was fighting to keep it together. Like I love you. Love you? John loves me? John loves me! John! Oh, John...!

Sherlock tried to speak, whisper, make any sound, but his throat would not cooperate. A high squeaky noise eventually came out and John laughed. 'That's why I kept dating women, Sherlock – I thought I wouldn't stand a chance with you. Mind you, I thought nobody had a chance with you, which was what kept me going. But last night, you kissed me, and I couldn't have been happier, but then you shut yourself down again, you were afraid to open up, to show your emotional side, and you looked so afraid. It hurt me to see you like that, and now I know that all those years of bullying made you like that.' John cradled Sherlock's close to his chest and he buried his face in the soft, dark curls. He breathed deeply and loved how he could do that now, hug Sherlock and smell his delicious scent.

Slowly, Sherlock started to untangle himself from John's hug and looked up at his friend with wide eyes. 'You love me.' It wasn't a question.

John nodded. 'I love you, Sherlock. Do you love me?'

A moment of hesitation – John took a deep breath and hoped he hadn't been too soon. Sherlock's full lips parted as his mouth opened, and his pale green-blue eyes seemed to soften as he spoke the four words that made both their hearts explode with happiness. 'I love you, John.'

John's face lit up as he smiled. Sherlock's hesitant little smile eventually broadened into a beaming one, one that John had rarely seen. But it was the most genuine smile Sherlock could have on his face, and he only had it around John. John recalled Sherlock had had it when they had come home after chasing a cab, the short moment at the pool when they had thought Moriarty had vanished and when Sherlock had been sitting in Buckingham Palace, only a white sheet wrapped tightly around his naked body.

They sat there, smiling at each other for just a few more minutes, before Sherlock curled himself up again and put his head on John's lap. He put his arms around John's hips and let John stroke his hair again. He closed his eyes and suddenly realised how incredibly tired he was. 'My John,' he mumbled before he drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

John smiled at his sleeping friend – or was he more than a friend now? Were they boyfriends? Lovers? – and continued to brush his fingers along the soft, dark curls that framed his beautiful face. Sherlock really was beautiful; his face seemed so young, younger than he actually was, almost boyish, though there was nothing round about it. Sherlock's face was all angles and shadows; the impossibly high cheekbones and his sharp jaw made his face seem long and his cheeks hollow, though it felt completely different when John brushed his fingers over it; the skin was incredibly soft. Another thing that had always intrigued John was the detective's mouth. The lines were smooth, the lips were full and the peculiar but fascinating shape of the upper lip's Cupid's bow made John wonder what kissing those felt like. Not like the kiss they had shared the day before, but a more intimate one, a deeper one, one that would allow John to feel all of Sherlock.

Then there was his nose, which perked up in an almost cute way when he laughed, or when he was deep in thought. John giggled quietly when he realised that the relaxed, sleeping Sherlock on his lap looked just adorable, so humanand still so Sherlock. John sighed as he thought about the detective's eyes; they were extraordinarily beautiful, the way they swept across any room with exceptional subtlety, their pale green-blue colour so bright John was convinced they could look right into your soul. The way they always narrowed slightly when he had seen something that might be relevant, or the dark, long eyelashes that complemented the pale irises so exceptionally well.

Content with his fingers in Sherlock's dark hair, John slid sideways along the back of the sofa and curled up beside Sherlock, dozing off within seconds.

Strong arms were around John's waist when he woke up; they were both on their sides now, facing each other, and Sherlock's nose disappeared in John's chest while he hugged the other man against him. John knew that Sherlock was awake, even though he had his eyes closed, and he pressed his lips against the top of Sherlock's head. 'Good morning,' he muttered.

'Morning,' was the muffled reply. Sherlock's mouth was pressed against the fabric of John's jumper and John could tell that the man was not entirely comfortable.

'Sherlock?' John asked. There was no reply. 'Sherlock, what's wrong?'

There was a quiet mumble and John could feel Sherlock's lips move against his chest, but he could not understand the words.

'Sorry?' he said.

'Not sure how to do this,' Sherlock whispered shyly.

John fought the urge to squeal and hugged Sherlock tighter. 'We'll do it our own way. I'll help you through this, Sherlock. It's new for you, isn't it? But I will make sure this first experience for you will be an amazing one, and I'll make sure you won't have to do or say anything you're not ready for. Hmm?' he said softly, his mouth still pressed to Sherlock's dark curls.

Sherlock nodded, looking up at John with wide, sparkling eyes. 'I want you to make this first experience my only one. I'm ready, John. Kiss me.'

John smiled; the combination of those words coming from Sherlock's (perfect) mouth would have surprised him before, to say the least, but now John wished nothing but to hear them and to oblige them. His heart pounded in his chest, beating frantically at the thought of kissing Sherlock again. He nodded and Sherlock's grip on his hips tightened as he pulled himself up to face the doctor. John leant forward and he felt Sherlock's fingers dig into his skin, through his jeans. John heard a soft gasp coming from Sherlock's mouth and he ran a gentle hand through his dark curls. He knew Sherlock was... "Uncomfortable" wasn't the right word, nor was "scared". "Apprehensive" came the closest, John decided, although it still didn't quite fit. Sherlock had never done anything like this before, even his spontaneous kiss from two nights before had startled him.

'It's okay, my dear,' John breathed into Sherlock's ear. 'We won't do anything you're not ready for.'

'No,' Sherlock contradicted, shaking his head. 'I... Like I said last night, it's just... new. I've got to get used to it, that's all. I am ready for this, John – believe me.'

'I believe you,' John whispered and his lips brushed Sherlock's cheek as they searched for his mouth again. The detective closed his eyes and held in breath in expectation. His big, pale hands moved up John's back and John shivered, gently pressing his lips to Sherlock's waiting open mouth. A small moan escaped his lips when John's hands started stroking his shoulders and his upper back.

Sherlock gasped at the feel of John's lips against his; a blazing fire lit up in his lower abdomen and a sensation welled up in him, one he had never felt before, but he wished he had because God, it felt good. John moved his lips slowly against his, his hands stroking Sherlock's shoulder through the thin fabric of his expensive shirt. Sherlock gasped when John opened his mouth and moved his hips against Sherlock's, but he didn't break up the kiss. Sherlock answered by opening his mouth as well. Immediately, his heart started pounding again; in theory, he knew what to do next...

John felt Sherlock's hesitation and pulled back again, looking Sherlock deeply in the eye. 'Is this all right with you?' he asked, brushing Sherlock's cheek with his right hand. Sherlock nodded. 'Yes,' he whispered. John smiled and brought his face to Sherlock's again, but Sherlock stopped him by laying a finger to his lips. 'But I've never done it before, John. Tell me if... if I do something inappropriate. Please?' he asked, once again looking at John with wide eyes. John smiled and nodded before closing his eyes and leaning in for the third time.

For as far as John knew, this was the first time that he "taught" anyone how to kiss, that he had kissed a man, and that he had more experience in something than Sherlock Holmes. There's a first for everything, John thought right before their lips met again.
Fireworks exploded in John's stomach when Sherlock kissed him back with more confidence now. John's thoughts seemed to drift off in a dynamic whirlwind that was just Sherlock and he didn't even think about Sherlock's inexperience in this part of life.

Everything in him screamed, yelled, shouted, moaned, craved for Sherlock and he sighed in satisfaction when Sherlock parted his lips again, his soft, full lips -

Oh. Oh.

This was – bloody hell, this, Sherlock's lips surrounding his, his warm breath blowing in John's mouth as he sighed, their tongues enraptured in a slow dance, it was amazing. 'Sherlock,' John gasped. Even to him it felt special, as if it was a first, as if he hadn't known such a feeling before. Despite Sherlock's lack of experience, he was a damn good kisser, John decided. Perhaps it was because he was a man instead of a woman? No, sod that, John thought. It's because he's Sherlock and I love him. It's because he's so warm, pressed tightly against me, kissing me like I've never been kissed before.

Sherlock closed his mouth again and finished the long kiss with a gentle, tiny one. He rested his forehead against John's and allowed the tips of their noses to touch. 'And...?' he asked shyly.

'You are perfect, Sherlock.'

'Do you mean that?'

'I do.'

Sherlock smiled and ran his thumb over John's slightly swollen lips. He kissed them again briefly before he nosed in John's neck, apparently settling himself there.

'What did you think of it?' John asked, slightly curious – and nervous. He had always thought he was a decent kisser, but with Sherlock Holmes you never knew.

'I could think of many adjectives.'

John swallowed nervously and Sherlock chuckled, pressing a small kiss to John's neck. 'Positive or negative?' John asked, stroking Sherlock's hair.

'Definitely positive.'

John smiled in relief. 'Give me some.'

Sherlock laughed and consulted his extensive vocabulary. 'Interesting – fascinating. Breathtaking – quite literally – wonderful, amazing, perfect, just downright gorgeous, John.'

John practically gleamed with pride. He hugged Sherlock closer to him on the sofa and they stayed like that for a while, until they both realised that it was already noon and they had not changed their clothes yet. John hastily jumped up and went for his bedroom, but Sherlock grinned and blushed – John was astounded – and seized him by the wrist, pulling him along to his bedroom. 'Sherlock?' John asked, a bemused smile on his face when he saw Sherlock's flushed face.

'You know me, John. Introduce me to a new way of keeping my mind occupied and I won't want anything else.' Sherlock kept his long, agile fingers tightly around John's wrist while fumbling with the doorknob with his other hand.

'Oh, is that what I am? Just any other distraction to keep your mind from going out of control?' John couldn't keep himself from feeling slightly hurt.

'A good distraction, though.' Sherlock had finally managed to open his door and they now stood inside, next to the big, neat bed that stood in the middle of the room. 'A distraction whom I love. A distraction whom I want to kiss, to love me back, to stay with me until the day we die.' Sherlock's hands were on John's back and he'd been leaning in unconsciously. 'I want more, John,' he breathed in the doctor's ear. 'You know what I'm like. I need stimulation...'

John glanced at the bed and looked back at the detective. 'You're sure you want this?'

'Perhaps not now. Perhaps not tomorrow. It will happen one day, John. I ask you know; will you be with me when it's time? Will you want me as bad as I will want you? Will you do this with me?'

John nodded and swallowed away his fear. Sherlock was with him and it would all be all right. 'As long as you'll be with me. I have more experience than you in this area, though when it comes to this, I'm afraid I don't know more than you do.' John felt slightly worried.

'Don't worry, John. We'll figure something out. For now, I am perfectly happy with this...' Sherlock pressed his lips against John's ear and moved along an invisible path that covered John's jawline and his neck, and ended at his mouth. 'Perfectly...' Sherlock muttered between two kisses. 'Happy,' he whispered a moment later.

John couldn't agree more.

Hedgehog's been a very bad fangirl again. I was just listening to one of my favourite Muse songs (well that says a lot) and immediately this popped into my head. I just thought the lyrics fit with Sherlock and John's relationship..
I haven't decided yet whether to make more chapters, I think I will. In which they will do what... their last conversation was about, wink wink. But it won't be smutty or anything, in fact it will probably be all vague. More information, next chapter... Thanks for reading ^^