The explicit part of the story begins in this chapter. If you aren't interested in reading it, stop after the kiss.

"I… you… what?" Sherlock was babbling, but he could not seem to stop himself. John had… John said that… but could that protect him from…? On the heels of John's confession, Sherlock's brain was flying off in a hundred different directions at once. He felt suddenly warm through his whole body, and his skin was tingling. He leapt up from the sofa and started pacing back and forth across the sitting room.

John loves me? John loves me! How did I never notice? This is amazing! Does it explain why the Glamour didn't work? He already loved me and was still able to retain his sense of himself, so the Glamour didn't destroy him? I've never tried to Glamour someone who was in love with me. No one has even been in love with me before. I can't believe John loves me back! Has any vampire ever tried to Glamour someone who loves them? Doubtful, no one wants to ruin their beloved's mind. This is incredible!

He became aware that John was standing up in front of the sofa, watching him pace with a fearful expression. Why was John afraid? Were his eyes glowing again? Possibly, but John knew the cause of that now and should not still be… oh. Oh yes, of course.

Sherlock spun on his heel once more and marched purposely over to John. "John, that's brilliant! You're brilliant!" he announced as he walked to him. A sunny smile broke out on John's face, and Sherlock felt his heart swell again.

When he reached him, Sherlock attempted to grasp John's hands, but his reach was clumsy in his haste and he ended up grabbing hold of John's wrists instead. He was opening his mouth to continue, to tell him that he loved him back, to finally admit this feeling now that he was confronted with the amazing revelation that it was reciprocated, when he saw John grimace and felt him pull his right wrist out of Sherlock's grasp.

"What's wrong with your wrist?" came out of his mouth, instead of the grand pronouncement of love that he had intended.

"It's nothing, just sore from earlier," John answered, squeezing his right wrist with his left hand through the fabric of his jumper and turning slightly away.

A horrible suspicion rose in Sherlock's mind. "Let me see it," he demanded.

"Look, it's fine, don't worry about it," John responded, not releasing his wrist.

Before he knew what he was doing, Sherlock grabbed both of John's hands and brought them up to his face. He closed his eyes and sniffed long and deep, extending his senses at the same time and dragging them along John's wrist… and… there! A sickeningly familiar not-quite-smell of sulfur and sweet rot clung to John's right wrist, faint through the material of the jumper but still distinct. Ignoring John's angry protests, Sherlock pried his other hand off and pulled up the jumper sleeve.

Two distinct puncture wounds were revealed beneath the fabric, perfectly placed in the delicate tracing of veins visible beneath the tender skin of John's wrist.

At the sight, Sherlock's fangs once again punched down into his mouth and he knew his eyes must be glowing.

"John," he said carefully, his voice deep and gravelly with anger, "when I asked you what Moriarty did to you before I arrived, you did not tell me that he drank from you. Why not?"

"I…," John swallowed audibly, "I was afraid you would get upset."

"You were correct." Sherlock did not release John's wrist. His eyes remained locked on the ground, his hand clenched tightly around John's arm. He stood perfectly still, holding himself in check by will alone. He felt almost overwhelmed, filled with so many conflicting urges and desires that he did not know what to do with them all.

He wanted to find Moriarty and rip him limb from limb for having the audacity, the gall to drink from his John. He wanted to fall on John and smother him in his scent, his aura, to lick his skin and breathe his air and taste his blood, until the lingering traces of Moriarty's violation were completely obliterated. He wanted to yell and rage at John for trying to hide this from him. He wanted to flee the unfamiliar vortex of emotions flooding him, dart out of the building and find solitude in the night. He wanted to squeeze John to his chest and stroke his hair and protect him and keep him safe from all threats.

"It's not bad, honestly. I would have told you if he had really hurt me. He just did it to prove that he was really a vampire when I didn't believe him. I don't think he even took any blood, just bit me and then showed me his bloody teeth." John was almost stammering in his haste to explain, but he made no attempt to free his arm from Sherlock's grasp.

Sherlock closed his eyes, paralyzed by the force of his clashing desires. He dropped his head down until his forehead was pressed against John's bared forearm and drew in a slow breath. The action caused his senses to fill with the faint traces of Moriarty's violation, and instantly one specific desire rose to the top, a desire to claim, to take, the sudden physical need sweeping through him and taking him by surprise.

Sherlock dropped John's arm and straightened up, turning to face John, still standing in front of the sofa. John stayed where he was, watching Sherlock carefully, his expression filled with concern. Concern, for Sherlock. After the night he had, John was concerned for him. Standing there with puncture wounds in his wrist and the smell of chlorine still clinging to him from the pool, John was worried about how Sherlock was feeling.

Overwhelmingly strong love for John immediately filled him, the force of it subsuming his need to claim John physically, staggering him with its power. He gently brought his hands up and cupped John's face in his palms, drinking in the sight of John's eyes widening in surprise and anticipation.

"John Watson, you wonderful idiot. In two hundred years I have never loved anyone, never even liked most people, and the feeling has always been mutual. And then you show up, and you aren't scared away, and you just care so much." He paused, staring into John's eyes as John gazed back at him, lips parted and eyes wide. "John, I love you. I am in love with you."

John gasped, eyes opening even wider, and then his knees sagged and Sherlock had to drop his hands and wrap one long arm around John's shoulders to hold him upright. Sherlock walked him backward and bent, placing John gently on the sofa. He dropped to his knees in front of John and pushed his face into his jumper-clad stomach. Slowly, he felt John's hands creep around his head until his fingers were buried in Sherlock's hair.

After a timeless time he looked up to find John looking back down at him with a wondering expression on his face. He smiled, and John smiled back, still looking dazed. John brought his hand forward and pushed his fingers through Sherlock's hair. Again his wrist floated past Sherlock's face, carrying with it that rotten almost-scent of Moriarty's aura, and Sherlock's need to claim what was his pulsed strongly in him again.

John drew in a sharp breath as the expression on Sherlock's face morphed into something dark and hungry. Sherlock rose and climbed forward onto John's lap, coming to rest hovering above him with his knees on either side of John's thighs. He brought his face down until his lips were just above John's.

"I hate the thought of him touching you, John. I can't stand it. You are mine. Mine, John. No one gets to touch you but me." With this, Sherlock dropped his head and started to nuzzle into John's neck and jaw, moving his head around and deliberately breathing hot air onto John's ear.

"Oh God, Sherlock," John gasped out, twisting his head to allow Sherlock better access.

"Mine," Sherlock hissed again, directly into John's ear. At the same time, he reached out with his aura and deliberately tweaked the strands of Glamour he could feel in John's mind. The result was electric. John bucked beneath him, bringing his groin up into contact with Sherlock's and causing a delicious pressure. John threw back his head, pressing back into the sofa cushion, and moaned loudly.

"Fuck, oh fuck," John ground out, biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Sherlock let his tongue trace a line along the shell of John's ear and then blew across it gently, eliciting a shiver from John.

"You are mine, aren't you John?" John nodded frantically, and Sherlock grinned against the side of his head, fangs curving down over his lower lip. "Say it."

"I'm… I'm yours. God, Sherlock, I've been yours for ages, you just never noticed."

"Yes, mine. Mmm, yes," Sherlock murmured against the skin of John's neck. Then he straightened up, settling back on John's thighs. He grasped John's wrist and brought it up to his mouth.

Pushing back the sleeve of John's jumper, Sherlock extended his tongue and licked the puncture wounds on John's wrist. John sucked in a breath as Sherlock continued, slowly and thoroughly lapping across the little injuries and the skin surrounding them, at the same time allowing his aura to intensify and wrap around John. By the time he was done, all hints of Moriarty had been erased from John's skin, with the exception of the puncture wounds themselves. Only time would erase those.

His immediate task complete, Sherlock released John's wrist and let his hand fall to his lap. John was leaning back on the sofa, staring up at Sherlock with an expression caught in a place halfway between tenderness and desire. His pupils were dilated, his breathing deep and fast, his heart rate elevated. Sherlock could actually hear his heartbeat, the blood pulsing through his veins audible as a dull rhythmic roar to Sherlock's enhanced senses. The urge to take John, to claim him, to taste every part of him, skin and sweat and blood, rose up in Sherlock. Overcome with arousal, eyes glowing a vivid red, he opened his mouth and bared his fangs.

John's breathing quickened, and his pupils dilated further. Slowly, cautiously, he brought a hand up and reached out, tracing one of Sherlock's fangs with the tip of a finger. Sherlock remained still, fighting back the desire to fall on John and just consume him, allowing John to explore.

John leaned forward, bringing his face closer to Sherlock's, and examined his fangs closely, still touching with his finger as well. Then he raised his gaze to Sherlock and his lips curved in a smile.

"May I kiss you?" John asked, his warm breath puffing softly against Sherlock's jaw.

Sherlock closed his mouth and licked his lips before answering, "Oh God yes."

John cupped Sherlock's jaw in one hand and leaned up, bringing their lips together. The kiss was soft and gentle and beautiful, the tender caress of warm lips, the comforting smells of tea and wool and gunpowder and John filling Sherlock's senses. He heard himself let out a soft high grunt as he pressed his lips more firmly against John's, wanting more, wanting the delightful smell and taste of John to fill him completely.

John moaned against Sherlock's mouth, and suddenly he needed more. Tentatively, he let his tongue slip out and gently dragged it across John's bottom lip. Immediately John's lips parted for him, and Sherlock pushed his tongue into the warm wet space of John's mouth.

The feeling was incredible, hot and slick, and the sensation of John's tongue caressing his was immediately the most sensuous thing Sherlock had ever experienced in his whole long life. He had, of course, had sex before, although not in many years. Early in his existence, when everything was still new and worth exploring, he had indulged in every vice he could think of, just because he could, up to and including all manner of sexual acts. However, it was obvious to him now that the addition of love made a significant difference to these acts of pleasure, elevating the simple mechanism of physical gratification to an act of reverent devotion. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to stay there, tasting John's mouth, reveling in the intense sensation of his tongue caressing and twisting around John's, for the rest of the night.

But then John leaned further up, pushing himself harder against Sherlock's mouth, thrusting his tongue forward between Sherlock's lips, and all rational thought fled.

John's hands came up and gripped hard in Sherlock's hair at the same time that John's tongue invaded his mouth, twisting around his. He felt the edge of John's tongue scrape the side of one of his fangs, and the resulting jolt of pleasure and arousal that washed through him obliterated his self-control.

Unthinking, he brought his arms up and wrapped them around John's shoulders, crushing John to him and sucking hard on John's tongue. At the same time he slid down John's legs until his groin was flush with the other man's and bucked against him, tightening his thighs around John's hips and grinding his erection against the equally prominent bulge beneath him. John whimpered into his mouth and writhed beneath him, thrusting up into Sherlock and twisting his hand tighter in Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock ground down onto John over and over, still sucking on his tongue, running his hands hard over every part of John that he could reach. He wanted to wrap himself around John, bathe him in his smell and taste until John forgot about everything else in the world but him. He moaned deeply around John's tongue as he bucked on his lap.

He allowed his aura to caress John's mind, deliberately trying to gently stimulate the threads of the Glamour, a maneuver he had never before attempted. He carefully stroked the yellow and green tendrils winding through John's brain even as he forcefully pressed himself against John's physical body, and was rewarded with a series of shuddering thrusts from the man below him. John broke away from Sherlock's mouth and threw his head back, moaning loudly and panting hard, his throat long and pale in the dim lighting. Sherlock's mouth watered at the sight, and before he knew what he was doing he brought his face down, opening his mouth and pressing his teeth against John's neck.

Suddenly becoming aware of himself, Sherlock froze for a beat and then jumped backwards off of John's lap. He stood, fighting to regain self-control, and watched as John came back to his senses, blinking and looking around. His eyes fell on Sherlock and he gave a slow, sleepy smile.

"God, that was… what's wrong?" he asked, becoming visibly concerned as he took in Sherlock's expression.

"John, I don't think I can do this," Sherlock managed to say, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. John's face fell, his expression crumpling into sadness at Sherlock's words.

"Oh God, Sherlock, I'm sorry. Was I going too fast? I'll stop, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push you too hard, I know this isn't something you usually do. We don't have to… I can stop…," John babbled quickly, flushing a deep red. He stood and took a step toward Sherlock, who took a quick step backward. John froze.

"No, John, stop. It's not that. I want to, as well. God, how I want to," Sherlock said, his voice deeper than usual in his arousal. John visibly relaxed at Sherlock's words.

"Then why?"

"I'm afraid I won't be able to… you're just so tempting. I'm not sure I can control myself."

"I don't want you to control yourself, Sherlock," John said, his voice deep and slow, looking directly into Sherlock's eyes. "I've wanted this for so bloody long, you have no idea. I don't want self-control, and you don't have to be careful. I want you to take me."

Sherlock had to stiffen his legs to stop his knees from going weak at John's words, and another wave of desire rocked him.

"John, fuck yes, I want that, I want to. But I… God, I want to taste you. I can hear your blood, smell it, feel it pulsing beneath my fingers when I touch you. I want to taste it, and I don't know if I can stop myself." Sherlock looked helplessly at John as he spoke, the desire he felt warring with his fear of hurting John, of finally scaring him off.

John's eyes widened as Sherlock spoke, but he did not look away. The silence stretched out, punctuated with John's ragged, panting breaths, as the two men locked eyes. Then John straightened his spine, lifted his chin, and gave a tiny little nod.

"I know you won't hurt me. I trust you, Sherlock."

"You shouldn't."

"Maybe not," John said with a smile, "but I do."

"John, you don't understand what it's like. I'm trying, but I don't know if I can resist. I don't even trust myself. We can't do this."

"No, Sherlock, you don't understand," John continued, his expression unchanged. "I'm saying it's fine. You said you don't need to take much, right? Go ahead and bite me. Drink my blood."

"Christ, John," Sherlock breathed. Hearing those words come out of John's mouth sent a bolt of desire slamming through him, making his cock pulse and his fangs ache. "You have no idea what you're saying."

"Well, if you think I'm going to let you go to a prostitute after this, you're insane," John answered, his smile widening. "I want you. I want every crazy bizarre infuriating part of you, even this part. If you have to have human blood, you can have mine. I want you to. Drink from me." And with that, John tipped his head back and to the side, baring his throat to Sherlock.

"Oh fuck." The tenuous threads of Sherlock's self-control snapped at the sight, and he took three large steps forward until he was pressed against John's compact form. He buried his face in John's neck, his sacrifice, and drew in a long breath, reveling in the delicious smell of his skin. Then he wrapped his arms around John, dropping his hands to grab John's arse, and with minimal effort lifted the shorter man up completely off the ground. Startled, John instinctively wrapped his legs around Sherlock's waist as he was hoisted into the air.

"So, stronger than us humans too, huh?" John said, laughing giddily as Sherlock carried him through the flat. Sherlock, pushed beyond the capacity for speech by the force of his need to feast on every part of John, did not reply. He just clutched John tighter to him and moved quickly to his bedroom.

Sherlock dropped John roughly onto the bed and fell on top of him, crashing their lips together in a bruising kiss. John responded eagerly, arching up against Sherlock's body and sucking hard on his tongue, moaning into his mouth. He brought his hands up and threaded one through Sherlock's hair, grabbing a handful and tugging, and dropped the other down to grip his arse. Sherlock let out a sound suspiciously like a growl and lowered his head to lick and suck at John's neck, pulling the collar of his jumper out of the way to get access to more flesh.

Rearing back, Sherlock dragged John up into a sitting position and jerked the damned thick wooly jumper up over his head, pulling off his shirt along with it and casting them both to the ground. John's hands came up to start working on the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, but Sherlock batted them away and simply tore the shirt open, buttons flying off in all directions.

"Sherlock, oh God," John gasped out, his eyes roaming Sherlock's bared skin. "You're so fucking gorgeous." His hands traced the contours of Sherlock's chest, fingers tickling in a gentle touch. He brought his thumbs down, dragging them across Sherlock's nipples, and the detective threw back his head and groaned, dropping down onto John's rigid erection beneath him and grinding. With a hiss, John twisted his fingers and pinched Sherlock's nipples hard, pulling another deep groan from the taller man.

Sherlock came back to himself enough to push John back down onto the bed. He hovered over him, drinking in the sight of John spread out beneath him. In the soft light of the bedside lamp John's skin glowed a warm honey tone against the duvet, the delicious smoothness of it interrupted here and there by pink and white scars, lines and puckers and welts marring the beautiful skin. Sherlock fell upon the body beneath him and began tracing over John's scars with his teeth and tongue, worshipping every mark as an indication of this incredible man's bravery, pouring out his love and desire and gratitude through his actions so that he would not have to try to find the words to say it out loud. Below him John writhed, moaning as Sherlock's lips and tongue and teeth danced across sensitive flesh and deadened nerves, the contrasting sensations making him buck with pleasure.

Sherlock licked and kissed and nipped his way down the length of John's chest and stomach, reveling in the heady smell of John's sweat and skin. When he reached the waistband of John's trousers he backed off, unbuttoning the flies and peeling the trousers and pants quickly down John's legs. As John's cock sprang free, dusky pink and achingly hard, the smell of musk and sex and pheromones hit Sherlock's heightened senses like a physical wall, rocking him with desire and arousal. Leaving John's trousers around his thighs, Sherlock buried his face in John's crotch, stroking the side of his cock with his cheek and drawing in deep lungfuls of the delicious odour of his arousal.

John twitched beneath him, keening at the sensation of Sherlock's smooth warm skin on his erection. The sound went straight to Sherlock's cock, and suddenly he needed more. He stood up, ignoring John's bereft whimpers, and quickly shed his ruined shirt. He unceremoniously unbuttoned his trousers and pushed both trousers and boxers to the ground, stepping out of them and crawling back up over John. Almost as an afterthought he grabbed John's trousers and pulled them off, freeing his legs. John immediately spread them and wrapped them around Sherlock, urging him up for a kiss.

Sherlock moved up quickly, taking John's mouth in a fierce kiss and then breaking away. He scooted downward between John's legs and reached for his cock, stroking it softly and lowering his head to gently and carefully lick the tip.

"Oh fuck, Sherlock, yes!" John called out, shuddering with the effort of holding himself still while Sherlock lapped at his cock. Sherlock smiled to himself, fangs protruding over his lower lip, and started to lick in earnest, alternating long strokes of his tongue with little sucking kisses along the shaft and head. He wanted to take John into his mouth, to feel John's cock pressing against his cheeks and tongue, but he was afraid to try, afraid that his fangs would scratch John, cause him pain. So instead he contented himself with driving John to distraction with a long, slow tease.

"Sherlock, fuck, please," John gasped out after a time, twitching and sweating.

"What, John? What do you want?" Sherlock asked, his voice a deep baritone rumble in his arousal.

"Just, God… just need more. Something, please. Please."

Sherlock brought his hand up and licked his palm, taking care to make sure it was very wet. Then he brought his other hand to his mouth and sucked in two fingers. He dropped his wet palm down onto John's straining erection and stroked once, rearing up to look at John past his own cock, fingers still in his mouth.

John looked down at him and groaned when their eyes met, taking in Sherlock's arousal, the fingers in his mouth, his visible fangs. Then Sherlock caressed his cock again, harder, and his head fell back against the bed.

"Yes, God yes," John moaned, as Sherlock started stroking his cock in a steady rhythm. Then Sherlock lowered his other hand from his mouth and dragged the wet tips of his fingers down over John's balls and across his perineum, coming to rest just tickling John's entrance. In response John moaned again, louder, and spread his legs wider.

Gently, teasingly, Sherlock started to work one wet finger in and out of John's hole, rewarded each time he pressed inside by a loud grunt from John. With his other hand, he continued to stroke John's cock slowly and steadily, drinking in the wanton thrusting and panting his touch evoked. Finally, he had one finger buried all the way inside John's arse. He worked it back and forth a few times, reveling in the delicious stretch, pushing his face into the musky cleft where John's thigh met his groin and breathing deep, drinking in the powerful smell of sex. Beneath it, beneath the sweat and spit and precome, John's blood sang to him, a rich and intoxicating odour that clouded his senses with desire.

Overcome, he drew his head back and pulled his finger out of John's arse, but kept up his steady assault on John's cock. He looked up the sweat-covered length of John's body and licked his lips, the tips of his fangs scraping his tongue and causing a lovely sting.

"John, I need to… Can I…," he stuttered, still afraid to ask, afraid that John would react with fear or disgust. But John, amazing, wonderful John, just pulled his legs apart even wider and moaned.

"Yes, Sherlock, anything. Please," he breathed out, and Sherlock was undone.

He dropped his head back down to John's inner thigh and licked the warm skin there. At the same time, he brought his fingers back to John's tight hole and pushed two of them inside. Above him John bucked at the sensation, moaning loudly. Then Sherlock bared his fangs and lowered them to John's delicious skin, pausing as the tips of his fangs started to push against the taut flesh.

With a final deep breath, Sherlock twisted his fingers in John's arse until he found the small hard node of his prostate and pushed down, still stroking his cock with the other hand. And at the same time he bit down hard, sinking his fangs deep into John's flesh, seeking out the artery he could feel just below the skin.

John's hot rich blood surged into his mouth, filling and overwhelming his senses. At the same time he heard John bellow and felt him buck hard, but he had been expecting that and rode the vigorous thrusts with his teeth still embedded in John's thigh, hand still around his cock and fingers in his arse. The incredible taste of John's blood, so much deeper and richer than any he had ever tasted before, rolled across his tongue and down his throat as he drank with long sucking pulls from the punctures in John's leg.

As Sherlock drank, John continued to writhe, thrusting up into his hand and grinding back onto his fingers, long loud moans pouring from his throat. Quickly, all too quickly, Sherlock felt the muscles of John's passage flutter and clamp down on his fingers, felt John's cock pulsing, and then a warm gush of liquid washed over his hand. With one last hard pull he broke away from the wounds in John's thigh and rose up, letting his fingers slip out of John's arse and gently stroking his cock. As his face moved past John's groin he caught a whiff of semen, and without thinking he dropped his face down and sucked John's softening cock into his mouth, slurping up the cooling fluid. John twitched and called out at the sensation, overstimulated, and Sherlock lifted his head, allowing John's cock to slide slowly from between his lips. Smirking, he raised his head until he could see John's face, and then brought his hand to his mouth and carefully licked all of John's come from his fingers. John groaned and dropped his head back, flopping one arm over his eyes.

Sherlock climbed up the length of John's body and took him in his arms, nuzzling John's arm off of his face and dropping little kisses all over his cheeks and chin and mouth, leaving spots of blood and come behind. John opened his eyes and grinned, still panting.

"Fucking hell. That was bloody amazing! Is it always like that?" he asked, sounding breathless.

"I don't know," Sherlock answered, his voice still low and gravelly, "but I look forward to finding out." He thrust his hard cock against John's hip, and John closed his eyes and moaned.

Sherlock backed up and took John by the shoulders, urging him onto his stomach. John, pliant and spent from his orgasm, allowed Sherlock to move him and position him at will, letting out little contented hums of pleasure. Sherlock placed him stomach down in the center of the bed and then climbed on top of him and lay down, coming to rest pressed against the length of John's body from chest to shins, his hard cock nestled between John's arse cheeks.

Achingly aroused but feeling drowsy and sated from his meal of John's blood, Sherlock started lazily mouthing the tops of John's shoulders and the back of his neck, mixing long sweeps of his tongue with scrapes of fang and gentle kisses. John stretched his neck out and hummed happily, relaxed and enjoying the feeling of Sherlock's mouth on his skin.

As he kissed John, Sherlock extended his senses and again found the threads of the Glamour in John's mind. Without pausing in his gentle ministrations, he started softly stroking the tendrils of his aura along the glowing lines of Glamour, caressing them with his power. Below him, John let out a much louder moan and started to writhe beneath his body, thrusting his hips back into Sherlock's groin.

"Sherlock, fuck, what are you doing?" John gasped, arching his back and pushing his face down into the duvet.

"Mmmm, not sure. Should I stop?" Sherlock replied lazily, still dragging his tongue along John's shoulders.

"Christ!" John swore as Sherlock tweaked the Glamour harder and nipped at the juncture of his shoulder and neck. "Fuck, no, don't stop. God, don't stop."

Sherlock gripped John's hips and pinned him to the bed, slowly grinding his cock down against the cleft of John's arse and dragging his teeth across the back of John's neck. At the same time he started ruthlessly tweaking the threads of the Glamour in John's mind with his aura, setting a viciously fast rhythm.

The effect was immediate and intense. John shuddered and writhed, grinding himself down into the bed and struggling against Sherlock's grip on his hips in an attempt to push back onto his cock. Unintelligible syllables poured from his mouth between whimpers and breathless gasps.

Almost involuntarily, Sherlock started thrusting his cock against John's arse, riding him through the thrashing. Waves of pleasure broke over him, the incredible friction of John's skin on his cock pulling a deep moan from his throat.

Sherlock reared back onto his knees and pulled John up by his hips, trying to position the smaller man in front of him. John, nearly incoherent, allowed Sherlock to draw him up but continued shuddering and bucking in time to Sherlock's stimulation of the Glamour. Reluctantly, Sherlock decreased the intensity of his assault to allow John to come back to himself somewhat.

After a moment, John's shuddering subsided. He knelt on the bed in front of Sherlock, body collapsed forward onto his elbows, face pressed into the duvet and arse in the air. Quiet whimpers and broken sobs continued to escape his mouth. Between his spread thighs, down one of which a thin trickle of blood still dripped, his cock hung heavy and full again. He looked completely debauched and incredibly beautiful.

"John, fuck," Sherlock breathed out, staring in awe at the sight before him. John did not respond, did not even seem to hear him. Sherlock gripped the cheeks of John's arse and spread them. Then he bent forward and laved John's tight pucker with his tongue, lapping around the ring of muscle before stabbing his tongue forward into the tight passage. John surged forward, his whimpers rising sharply in volume and intensity, and Sherlock rode the thrust, keeping his tongue buried deep, pushing it in and out of John's arse.

Sherlock leaned back and straightened up, watching as John jerked backward briefly, seeking more stimulation. Then he rose up onto his knees again and leaned over John's back, allowing his cock to rest in the cleft of John's arse again. As Sherlock leaned forward, John pushed back against him, groaning, his face still pressed down into the bed. Sherlock draped himself over John and reached out, opening the drawer in his nightstand and pawing around for the seldom-used bottle of lube he kept there. Finally his questing fingers encountered the plastic tube and he pulled it out triumphantly.

Straightening up again, Sherlock flipped the cap and drizzled lube onto his cock, dropping his hand to himself to smooth the slick liquid over the whole length. The feeling of his own lubed hand was intense enough to pull another groan from his mouth, and below him John twitched again at the sound. Then Sherlock dripped more lube onto his fingers, snapped the lid down, and tossed the bottle onto the floor.

Biting his lower lip hard enough that the tips of his fangs nearly pierced the skin, Sherlock brought his lubed fingers back down to John's arse and immediately pressed two inside him. At the same time, he renewed his stimulation of the Glamour in John's mind, firmly tweaking the tenuous threads with his aura. John arched his back hard at the combined attack, his head coming up off the bed and tipping toward the ceiling, his mouth open in a silent scream.

Sherlock pushed his fingers in and out of John's arse quickly for a few thrusts, and then added a third finger, twisting them to find and ruthlessly work John's prostate, at the same time keeping up his mental assault. John drew in a ragged breath and then released it in a loud wordless shout, grinding back on Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock continued to work John's arse with his fingers, staring mesmerized at the surging body beneath him, until John's incoherent shouting resolved into a repetitive, desperate entreaty.

"Please, please, please, please…"

The sound of John's begging shot arousal through Sherlock, the feeling crackling down his spine and lighting up his nerve endings with cold fire, and he needed to be inside John, to feel him, immediately. He pulled his fingers out of John's stretched, open hole and grabbed John's hip with one hand, holding his slick cock in the other and lining it up. Then, simultaneously plucking the Glamour hard with his mind, he pushed his entire length into John's arse in one smooth thrust.

The sensation of being inside John, the feeling as the walls of his passage clenched hard around Sherlock's intrusion, was absolutely indescribably good. Sherlock froze, fully seated in John's arse, his head thrown back as he fought to stop himself coming right then from the glorious slick heat of it. The electric jolts of pleasure coursing through him pulled hard shudders down his spine, and he pressed harder against John, squeezing his hips tight enough to bruise. In front of him, John squirmed and moaned, trying to impale himself further on Sherlock's cock.

Finally, finally, his arousal subsided and Sherlock was able to draw back, pulling slowly out of John's hot passage and then pushing back in once, twice, three times.

"John, oh God. So good, so so good," he moaned out, lifting one hand from John's hip and dragging his fingernails through the sweat pooling along John's spine.

"Yes, yes, yes," John chanted softly in reply, arching under Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock dropped his hands back to John's hips and began thrusting in earnest, pushing in and out of John in a steady fast rhythm while gently caressing the Glamour in John's mind with his power. The sensations of John's tight arse around his cock, the hot wiling body beneath his hands, the warm comfort of John's mind when he touched it with his own, combined to create a sense of bliss that Sherlock had never before experienced.

He wanted to drown in the feeling, to bathe in every aspect of John. He wanted to bury every part of himself in the man and bask in the joy and passion and lust that John exuded. He wanted to wrap himself around John and overwhelm his senses, so that all John could feel, all John knew, was Sherlock, and all he knew was John. He wanted to taste him again.

Sherlock straightened up and reached down to John's shoulders, pulling back until John rose on his knees and leaned back against Sherlock's long lean form, gasping, Sherlock's cock still buried in his arse. Sherlock brought one hand up and gripped John loosely by the throat, dropping the other hand back to his hip, and continued to thrust shallowly in and out. He leaned his head forward, pressing his nose against the juncture of John's neck and shoulder, and looked down the length of his body to where his cock stood out from his groin, hard and deep red and slick with precome. Another wave of lust pounded through him at the sight and odour of John's arousal, and his fangs throbbed in his mouth. He drew back his lip and gently scraped them along the column of John's throat.

"John, may I?" he asked, deliberately pitching his voice low and smooth. John responded by releasing a soft whine and throwing his head to the side.

"God, yes, please," John moaned out. The words, the breathless, needy tone, shivered through Sherlock, and instantly he was right on the verge of coming. With a hiss he reared back and bared his fangs, eyes locked on John's neck.

Sherlock lunged forward and drove his fangs into John's throat, at the same time thrusting his cock deep into John's arse and positively pounding on the Glamour with his aura. John's rich blood burst into his mouth, flooding his senses with heat and lust and John. Sherlock closed his eyes and drew hard on John's neck, pulling out delicious mouthfuls of blood and groaning out through his nose. At the same time, John shouted out, voice hoarse and cracking, and convulsed against him, and Sherlock felt the tight walls of John's passage spasm along the length of his cock as John came.

As John rocked in his arms, the threads of the Glamour in John's mind suddenly thrummed, resonating with Sherlock's aura and sending a shocking backlash of intense raw pleasure pouring over him. Sherlock tore away from John's neck and threw his head backwards, letting out a deep guttural groan as the feeling washed through him, and then he was coming too, his hips stuttering in a staccato rhythm as he bucked against John.

Coming back to himself slowly as the wave of pleasure ebbed, Sherlock leaned forward and gently lay John down on the bed before pulling out and lying down beside him. John collapsed where Sherlock placed him, panting and still releasing the occasional soft humming moan.

Sherlock nuzzled his face into the side of John's head and then wrapped his arms around him and squeezed tight, overtaken with the desire to touch as much of John's skin as he could reach. He claimed John's legs with his own and pressed his body against the side of John's, ignoring the clammy sweat that made their skin stick together, and continued nuzzling against his hair.

With a deep breath and a chuckle, John turned his head and caught Sherlock's lips in a soft kiss before rolling over within the cage of his arms until their bodies were pressed together, facing each other.

"Never would have expected you to be a cuddler," John said with amusement. In response, Sherlock rolled his eyes and did his best to look disparaging, but did not back away or release his firm hold on John.

"Of course I'm not. Quite undignified," he said, still cuddling. John giggled and gently stroked Sherlock's face with his hand.

"That," he said, looking into Sherlock's eyes, his expression suddenly serious, "was the single most amazing thing I've ever experienced in my life."

Sherlock looked back, equally serious, allowing the significance moment to stretch out and crystalize. "Me, too," he whispered softly. A look of wonder and joy washed over John's expression at the gentle words, and he suddenly threw his arm over Sherlock's shoulder and jerked him down into a crushing hug, pushing his face into Sherlock's curls and breathing deep.

"I love you," John whispered into Sherlock's hair, so softly that he barely heard it. Sherlock rested there briefly, just enjoying the feeling of John's warm breath through his hair and John's skin against his cheek. Then he pulled back far enough to look up at John's face.

"I love you too."

The two men lay still, looking at each other, drinking in the moment. Sherlock let his eyes roam John's face, not deducing, just enjoying the sight of John's familiar careworn skin, cobalt eyes, and happy smile. Then his eyes fell to John's throat and he saw the trail of fresh blood still dripping down from the punctures left by his fangs, filling the tiny wrinkles in the skin of John's neck and leaving spots on the duvet.

"Oh hell, did I hurt you?" he asked, reaching out to trail his fingers along the wounds, his eyes jumping to meet John's.

"What?" John asked, looking confused. He brought his own hand up to touch the injury on his neck and then examined his fingers, faintly surprised. "Oh, no. Didn't even feel it, honestly. It's fine."

"How do you feel? Faint?" Sherlock asked, suddenly concerned. Had he taken too much? John just huffed a soft laugh at him and rolled onto his back.

"Sherlock, I'm fine. Really. They take more blood when you donate, and then send you home with juice and a biscuit." He turned his head again and caught Sherlock's eye, and then dropped his gaze. "Besides," he added in a softer voice, "I liked it."

Sherlock shuddered at John's words, and then leaned forward. Holding John's gaze, he extended his tongue and lapped up the little trail of blood on John's neck. John shivered and gasped, looking back intently. Satisfied once John's skin was clean, Sherlock lifted his head and licked his lips. John, watching his mouth carefully, licked his own in an unconscious echo.

"Jesus, Sherlock. How do you do that? After that, I shouldn't be able to get aroused again for a week." John's skin was flushed and he was breathing deep.

Sherlock smirked. "I'm just that good."

"Well, yeah, okay, that's true."

Sherlock lay back down and rested his head on John's chest, nuzzling and rubbing his cheek against the soft curls that grew there while John gently carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair. After several moments of silence, during which Sherlock let his mind drift without analyzing, John cleared his throat.

"So, that thing you were doing…," he trailed off, hesitant. Sherlock immediately knew exactly what he was asking, but feigned ignorance, wanting to make John say it out loud.

"Hmmm? Which thing? I did several."

"You know," John said with a huff. "The thing you were doing… in my head."

"Oh, you mean this?" Sherlock deliberately gave the threads of the Glamour a little tweak, feeling John shudder beneath his cheek.

"Yeah, that," John gasped. "Um. What is that? Is it to do with the Glamour?"

"Yes. I've never tried to manipulate a Glamour like this before, so I don't know if it's a normal aspect of the condition or a result of our… special situation. I think I quite like it, though.

"God, me too," John answered fervently. He paused for a moment, then added, "You know, the more I think about it, the more I think that there's nothing different about the Glamour you put on me."

"There obviously is, John."

"No, really. I mean, I already do basically everything you tell me to. The important things, certainly, and quite a few other things that are annoying to me, just for your convenience. I even risk my life for you on a fairly regular basis." He fell silent, and then reached his arm out and wrapped it around Sherlock's shoulders again. "And I do adore you."

Sherlock found himself smiling like an idiot at the words. He tried to stop it, to replace the grin with a more dignified expression of mild pleasure, but found that he could not. With a mental shrug, he gave up and grinned at John.

"In this case, the feeling is mutual."

"Right, exactly! I was thinking, maybe that's the difference. We both already felt genuine love for each other, so the emotional bond wasn't forced by the Glamour. Does that sound possible?"

Sherlock forwent the usual insults he liked to pull out when John tried to make a deduction and instead considered John's idea. It had merit, certainly, but could not be verified without experimentation, which would be difficult to conduct. He shrugged.

"Yes, it sounds possible." He thought for a moment about John's earlier declaration. "So, you'll do anything I ask, will you?"

John groaned and covered his eyes with his hand. "Not anything. God, I never should have said that out loud."

"No, probably not." He turned his face up to John and waited until John dropped his hand and looked back. Then he fluttered his eyelashes in as comically dramatic a manner as he could. "John," he said in a high, false voice, "make me tea?"

"You daft bastard," John laughed. Then he squeezed Sherlock tight for a moment before pushing him back and sliding out of bed, throwing on Sherlock's dressing gown, and heading to the kitchen.

This was all I originally intended to write when I received my prompt for the gift exchange, but then I went and created this whole AU and now I have a bunch of ideas for it. So, I will probably continue this story beyond this chapter... eventually. I'm even considering making it a whole Sherlock vs Moriarty casefic, which would be a first for me. So, if you've enjoyed it and would be interested in reading more, please stay tuned.

Also, I need to acknowledge that I drew inspiration for part of this story from the novel Wizard's First Rule, by Terry Goodkind. I don't want to say which part, because I don't want to give anything away if you haven't read it, but if you have you'll know what I'm talking about. Also, it's a good book, and I recommend it.