I can feel your eyes on me, you know. You are not here to watch me. I often feel that since I took the lanista position you barely know which weapons each of your gladiators favour.

Do not be ridiculous. I have a retiarius, three Thraeces, two hoplomachi, a Samnite and two secutors, and the newcomer Moran has recently begun training as a velite – his technique with the spear has greatly improved since you taught him that feint three days ago. You misunderstand the reason that I watch you, John – the way that you teach them so humbly will never cease to amaze me.

And there I thought you were simply admiring my legs. So many of these men have been in the arena for years longer than I have, I did not think that they would take kindly to me if I attempted to take control. I would rather advise them as a peer, and I believe that this has earned me their respect far more readily.

The extent to which I underestimated you when we first met leaves me breathless sometimes. I hope the gladiators understand exactly what punishment awaits them if they enter the cages this afternoon.

I think they understand exactly why as well, which I will admit to finding a touch embarrassing.

Angelo, at least, has known we wished to do this since Lestrade resigned. If there was a simple way of arranging such a thing without our intentions being obvious, believe me I would have taken it. But even so, the temptation of having you like that far outweighs the embarrassment of all my gladiators knowing it. I trust them, in any case.

I have been trying not to look at you, but I still know the instant you rise from your seat in the stands – incidentally, it has been some weeks since I have seen Lestrade watching us train and I am taking that as a sign that his life is proceeding well – and leave the arena. I know where you are going. Bacchus, the knowledge makes my fingers tingle.

I spoke with Lestrade yesterday, he seemed intent on providing me with lewd tales from his new life, as though he had forgotten that the man he is describing is my brother. It is so quiet in the cages underneath the stands; I can barely hear the clash of sword and spear and trident. Occasionally I can hear you shout at one of them. The sound of your voice still makes me smile every time I hear you; you would not believe how much of a comfort it is to me to know that I can hear it anytime I want, that if I wake in the middle of the night I have only to roll over and you will be there, every time.

I am certain that you know exactly how difficult it is for me to concentrate on correcting ward positions when I know that you are waiting for me on the other side of the arena wall. Are you lying on my bed, sitting on my chair? No doubt you are thinking of me, of what I will do to you when I call an end to training and join you in my old bedchamber. The sight of you flushed red with desire will never not make my knees want to buckle.

John. This room still smells of you. I want to rub the scent of you all over my body, but I hold back – you will do that for me when you get here. I kneel on your bed instead, rucking my toga up around my waist and pulling at the fabric of my loincloth. It feels so strange to expose myself here, only corners and corridors barring me from the open air. The feeling sets my blood alight in a way that I had never felt before you. You will be here soon, your hands where mine are, stroking up my bare thighs and between my legs, slick with oil. You make me feel so many wonderful things I sometimes wish the entire Empire could see.

If only so that they could all know that you are mine, and I am not sharing you with any of them. What is between us is for you and me alone. The rest of the Empire has no right to see you the way I do. The force with which I want to keep you would frighten me if I were not sure that I will keep you.

You will, John, always. I can no longer take pleasure from my own body without thinking of yours; even with three fingers inside myself as far as they will go what makes my flesh sing is the thought of removing them and replacing them with you.

Oh, Hercules, that is enough training for today. They all know I am fidgeting with impatience for the morning to end as it is, an early finish will earn me only amused smiles, and then I will be free to run to you as fast as I can, the hum of the last training exercise not yet faded from my blood.

I have left the bed and sat calmly on the rickety chair by the cage bars by the time you arrive, panting as though you merely dropped sword and sprinted here. The expression on your face spurs me to my feet; hungry, desperate. You look as though you want to eat me alive, and Jupiter knows I am on board with that plan. I'd like to take a few more steps and meet you halfway, but you move with such determination that I can barely think it before you have scooped me into your arms without breaking stride and pressed me against the nearest wall.

I could not have helped it, Sherlock, not with you standing there with that fire in your eyes, fidgeting your hands as though you have been forcibly keeping them from yourself waiting for me. Your body feels so fragile and yet so deceptively strong, trapped there between me and the harsh stone wall, chest heaving, not trying in the slightest increment to fight me.

Why would I want to fight you? The things that you do to me like this, the crash of my body against the wall and the warmth of your chest – cold at my back and you at my front – speaks to a part of me that was dormant until I met you. You breathe, your chest against my chest, your exhalations against my cheek, your hands holding me safe. Kiss me, John, I need you.

You have perfect lips, have I told you that before? Lush and sculpted into a perfect recurve like Cupid's golden bow. They feel exquisite against mine, shifting and parting to let me claim your beautiful mouth as my own. You squirm your body underneath me, trying to shift your hands from where I am pinning them against the wall. I feel as though I should let you move, but I cannot think of anything but the feel of your mouth, fiery and all-consuming.

Your kisses make my knees turn to water until you are the only thing holding me up. Your hands leave mine against the wall, but your chest is still pressed so tightly against me that I stay upright, closing my eyes at the feeling of your fingers trailing up my thighs, pulling up my toga – I cannot breathe – much higher and you will discover what I have done while waiting for you.

Oh, Sherlock. Your eyelids flutter shut as I work my way up your legs and I can feel my own heart quickening when I find the firm swell of your bare backside instead of the folds of fabric I had expected. Your skin is smooth and warm and beautiful, and I want to bury myself inside it, wrap you all around me. I slide my fingers over your rear, down into the delicious dip between your cheeks and – oh, Sherlock. You are slick with oil and my fingers slide inside you so easily. Just the thought of you sitting in this room with your own fingers stretching yourself for me forces a moan from my lips.

Take me, John. I have thought of nothing else all day. I want you to hold me against the wall and press yourself inside me. You groan, a broken sound that tingles through my arms to my fingers, and drop your hands to begin tearing at your loincloth, pressing your hot lips and tongue to the crook of my shoulder. My own panting is harsh in my ears and throat as the fabric pools at your feet and then you fill me, slow and hot and luxurious, and your groan joins mine in bouncing off the walls and echoing through the room.

You moan my name, your voice low and resonant and beautiful. You know my love for your voice, Sherlock. It is red wine and honeycomb, inside on a sunny day, decadent and cosy. Your body stretches around me as though it is my home. It is a strange contrast, the inviting warmth of your body against the cold, rough edge of the cage walls, one that reminds me of both our reasons for doing this here. You are so different from this world, so much higher – and yet you wish to lower yourself into it because of me, smother yourself with it because of me.

John! I do not know what the thought was that made you tighten your grip on my hip and my shoulder and push mercilessly deeper but you are welcome to have it again – the back of my head hits the stone wall behind us with the force of your movements, harder and faster, just as I imagined. You steal the breath from my lungs and bite into my neck. You make my blood scream and my head spin. You fill my mind with you. Gods, harder, John. As hard as you can, I have no desire to walk tomorrow.

If you insist, my Emperor. With each thrust you whimper so prettily, completely unrestrained. It is refreshing being able to hear the noises that you would make if we were not attempting to avoid a repeat of that first night I took you, when your screaming brought your brother running – although I think he may have better things to do now than listen for your screams.

Mention my brother's relationship with my former lanista again and this will reach a very different end than the one you have planned.

Forgive me. I must admit I find their relationship somewhat amusing, although the thought of them engaged in the sorts of activities I fantasise about with you is desperately unappealing.

Are you giggling? John, endearing as that sound is it is hardly appropriate for – oh! Actually, that… the movements that your body makes when you laugh are oddly stimulating. Do that again.

You are so demanding. Evidently I must try harder to reduce you to incoherence.

Oh, John! Yes! When you bite and suck at my throat it diverts my entire attention – I can only feel you, your lips and teeth, your hands holding me down, your erection sending sparks from my navel right through to my fingers and toes. It is unbelievably freeing, not needing to bite my own lips to hold back the noises that you pull from me as you know exactly how to send my body hurtling towards the crux of pleasure. Little as I want you to, you must slow down if you wish this to last –

You do not think we will only do this once in here? The gladiators will not be back for several hours. You and I have been expecting this all morning, to drag it out much longer would be agony. Let go, Sherlock. Bacchus, you are beautiful like this, do not hold back on me. There will be time for that later. Just let go, I have you.

I love you.

And I love you. I love the transcendent expression on your face as you throw your head back – hitting it against the stone wall once again – and your arousal twitches and throbs against my stomach, expelling fluid and soiling the clothing I had forgotten we were wearing. You are so beautiful, so perfect and still so hot and earthy and human, that I cannot help but follow you over the edge, drowning in the smell of your sweat and the sound of your shout.

I can feel you pulsing inside me, feel your seed hot against the centre of me. The thought and feel of it exacerbates the pleasure already charging through every inch of my body like a rampaging warhorse. You are the only person who has ever made me feel like this – no fantasy that I had as a teenager inflames me to the extent that simply thinking of you does.

Your body slumps against mine – I support you, of course I do, though my own legs are trembling like mad, while you find your feet and gradually peel yourself away from me, lacing our fingers together. Of course, Sherlock, it is difficult to remove your toga with my hand attached to yours, but you are finding that out on your own.

Why do we wear clothes? The things are so accursedly interfering. Imagine what things would be like if I could see all of you, all the time.

Without clothes, my dearest, you would have difficulty hiding your inappropriate reactions from everyone who glanced in your direction while you were watching the gladiators train.

If everyone went without clothes, perhaps it would not matter. Juno, your bed is uncomfortable. How did you sleep like this every night and not break something?

I must admit that having you wrapped around me makes the prospect seem easier.

Do not dare to fall asleep now, John, I am not finished with you.

Thank Cupid's golden arrow, since I am not nearly finished with you either. Your skin feels so lovely, hot and damp with the sweat from your earlier pleasure sinking into its layers. I would be endlessly content if I could keep my hands on it forever, keep you draped across the side of me, keep your indescribable eyes fixed on me with that expression forever.

Marry me, John.

Sherlock.

Do not smile at me like that, I am serious. I want the Empire to know what you mean to me.

I cannot, Sherlock, you know that. It is not legal, for a start.

I am the Emperor. I can do anything I want to.

And if the Emperor does not follow the laws of his Empire, why should the rest of his citizens? If you are seen to disregard it, everyone will use it as an excuse to break the law.

If my citizens want to marry other men, I wish them all the happiness in the Known World. It is a stupid law.

But it is the law, and the Emperor must be seen to uphold it.

Nero married three different men. Two of them he married as their bride.

Nero also rubbed a man's skin off with a fish as punishment for disturbing him. You are not seriously comparing yourself to Nero. Put that down, I am not about to change my mind simply because your fingers are inside me. Sherlock. We need to talk about this properly.

As long as you do not put it completely off the table, for now I am content.

I would like nothing more than to marry you, my Sherlock, insane as you are. We will talk about it. Now put your hand back on my penis.

Now who is being demanding.

Only you enjoy it when I am demanding, or we would not be here. Lie back and pass me that bottle; I want to own you, so brittle and godlike on my rickety slave's bed, surrounded by gladiator.

Surrounded by you, John. I feel as though the air I breathe is you, as though you are in my lungs and my stomach and my very skin. Come closer to me, I want your chest on my chest, your lips on my lips. I want you pressed against every inch of me.

Of course, my love. Your body is so warm underneath mine, so comfortable. I love you, Sherlock, the taste of sweat under your jaw and the ticklishness you try to hide from me when I lick there, the feeling of your renewed arousal slick with oil throbbing against my own between our legs and the noises you make when I move my hips, the fact that I can do this forever and ever and ever.

It still seems like something forbidden to imagine life with you, even though I have been living it for weeks now - each time I wake up I fear that you will not be there, and yet each time you are. I wanted you for so long that it is a habit now, that no matter how long I stare at your lips while you speak it is difficult to convince myself that I can kiss them as I wish. Faster, please, John, I need you, I love you, have me.

I have you, Sherlock, I have you - I have your arousal in my hand, pressed against my own, and it still baffles me how when I am with you my mood bounces between sentimental and desperate, between how much I love you and how much I want you, like they are one and the same thing. You are an enigma and a storm and I want to spend the rest of my life in the middle of you. Pick me up and never put me down.

Never, never. I love you. Put your arms around me, John, hold me. The feel of your body against mine in this way is so meant, so pleasurable, I sometimes feel as though I could stay in this state forever, suspended, with you. As though the moment right before the climax could stretch on indefinitely, you and I trapped in a bubble of pleasure together. And then the bubble bursts, your fist around us tightens and I can feel it rushing over me, feel the moment when the pleasure blossoms, turns inside out, turns me inside out. I can feel my body shaking, my arms and legs convulsing, my throat screaming – but most of all I can feel your arms around me, the weight of your body holding me down. You hold onto me until I can open my eyes and catch my breath, every inch of my body trembling with the threads of residual pleasure. Let me up now, John – it is your turn.

Your climax consumes you, every time, you give yourself up to it and let it take over your body and your mind so that when it is over you can only pant and watch me with your sharp eyes momentarily softened and your gorgeous plump lips parted slightly, the picture of temptation.

You want my mouth? I can oblige that for you. I have thought about being on my knees in this room before.

Go on, then. I would never turn down an offer like that – and Venus knows it will not take long enough for me to worry about hurting your knees. I have thought about this as well – even naked and glistening with sweat and seed you look like something precious. On your knees like this you could be praying, except that your deity, the one to whom your worshipful upwards gaze is directed, is me. What did I do to deserve something like you, Sherlock?

I often wonder the same thing about myself. I suppose that explains it.

Gods, my every inch of skin tingles. Your lips stretch so prettily around me, my rough hands buried in your beautiful damp hair, and the heat of your mouth feels so incredible I can hardly breathe. Imagine what the public would think if they could see you like this, on your knees for one of your slaves with my hot, throbbing arousal buried halfway down your throat.

And sizeable, John, you forgot that. I can feel the head of it throbbing against the back of my throat and the ache in my jaw from stretching around you already beginning. It is difficult to understand why things like this are considered so terrible when the feel of you pressed, soft and hard at the same time, between my tongue and the roof of my mouth is so pleasurable.

Your mouth never stops moving even when I am inside it; your tongue strokes the base of my erection and your mouth shifts, sliding up and down the length of me, firm and hot and fast and I cannot – Sherlock, please, I cannot hold on, I need – your fingers slide from my hip down between my legs, into the crease of my rear, and the added sensation pushes me over. I shout but I do not know if it has words, bent over, clutching desperately at your hair until it surely must hurt you, watching as your eyes slide closed and your throat works to swallow my essence, taking a part of me inside of you forever.

There will already be a part of you inside of me forever, John. Sit down before you fall over. Catch your breath. I imagine the gladiators will begin to return soon.

Look at us. You have semen spread over your belly and sweat glistening in your hair, and I imagine I must look little better. We ought to wash properly, rather than just rinse ourselves down.

We have yet to bathe together. You would like my personal baths, I cannot believe I have not taken you there before.

Your lips feel different against mine once they are plumped from sucking and biting. The mere idea of why they feel like this would have me aroused again if I did not feel as though I will never be able to sustain another erection. Come on, then, you lunatic, a bath sounds wonderful.

I love you, John.

Jupiter, I love you, too. Your toga is crooked, my dearest – come here and let me rearrange your hair.

Yes, mother. John… the head of the city lawkeepers came to see me this morning before training.

I am aware, I saw him as I was leaving. I became familiar with him when the lawkeepers were still looking into Mary's murder. What did he want?

My help with another murder. You know I occasionally look into cases for them. A young man was murdered the night before last and they wish me to look at the body before it is cremated tomorrow.

Will you go?

Of course. In fact, I was rather hoping you would accompany me. You are a gladiator, an expert on both combat and anatomy, you could be very useful. And… when we were investigating Mary's death, you said things… you reacted in ways that no-one else ever has. It was more fun with you there.

Setting aside, naturally, the fact that it was my wife's murder we were investigating, there were aspects of it that were enjoyable. Of course I will accompany you, if you wish it. A less personal case I believe I could thoroughly get behind.

Thank you. I am certain that together we will be unstoppable.

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, consulting detectives.

The first half of that sentence sounded perfect. The second half perhaps needed a little work.

I thought it had something of a ring to it.

We laugh, and you take my hand, and it warms my heart as effectively as the sunlight that bathes us as soon as we step out of the cages together. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Whatever we choose to be, I believe I can get used to it.

THE END

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who took a personal interest in the development of this story: Mirith Griffin, SplendidDust, chocolate fish, CaskettFanGirl, thebookworm214, and Pati79 and consultingfeels on tumblr for including this story in their WIP update notifications, and to the incredible nikerra on LJ, who is in the midst of translating this story into Russian (link to come!) Thanks to everyone who has been there reading and reviewing right from the start or supported us along the way - I heartily apologise yet again for the embarrassingly long time it takes to update, it should not have taken us over a year to finish this - ladypredator, skeptic7, rifleman_s, snogandagrope, Batik, MyriadProBold, LadyGinger, iseult1124, 107602, enrapturedreader and SrtaWalkeron AO3, Artemis Fortune, BookWoman17NerdyMom, power0girl, Dinosaurs-go-rawr, Eby, xXthenextbookwormXx, , CowMow, HoneyandChai, Quiet Time, tardisinthegc, and sKyLaR KnIgHt on fanfictiondotnet. You have made this story an absolute joy.