Written for the Johnlock Challenges Grab Bag Gift Exchange, for AutumnalAfternoon. The dialogue prompt was the sentence "Daytime telly lost a bloody fine drama queen when you decided to go into detective work." Hope you like it, my dear! You said you were good with an explicit rating, and I took you at your word. Warning: smut ahead (and also fluff, because it's me)!

The pub air was dim and thick with the smell of too many people crammed into too little space as Sherlock wound his way through the rowdy crowd. It was a match night, and the small pub was packed with loud, obnoxious revelers, shouting and swilling beer with no regard for where they placed their elbows. Despite his commanding presence and the air of superiority he exuded, which usually guaranteed him unimpeded passage through most crowds, Sherlock found himself getting jostled and jabbed by pointy bits of strangers as he moved back toward John's table.

Finally pushing through the crowd and emerging beside John's seat at the small table, Sherlock pulled out his own chair and dropped into it with an annoyed huff. John, his attention focused on one of his army buddies who was mid-story, did not react to Sherlock's display.

"Honestly," Sherlock said loudly, ignoring the speaking man across the table, "I don't see why we had to come to a pub during a match. This is ridiculous!" The story-teller – Sherlock could not remember his name, and had no desire to anyway – paused briefly as Sherlock spoke. John did not turn his head, watching the speaker with a cheerful expression, and after a moment he continued. Under the table, though, John's hand found Sherlock's knee and he rubbed it briefly before giving it a squeeze.

"– so he said, 'I'd like to mate, but I think it ate my keys!'" the man finished, making some large complicated arm gesture to accompany this statement. Immediately, the entire table erupted into laughter; John laughed so hard he folded forward, slapping one hand on the table top and clutching his stomach with the other. Sherlock folded his arms across his chest and hunched up in his seat, scowling.

Finally the excessive display of mirth died down, and different man at the table launched into another pointless and likely fabricated "funny" story, again commanding the attention of the rest of the group, including John. Sherlock leaned further back and hunched further into his seat, pulling his head down until the collar of his coat reached up to his ears. John appeared not to notice.

He was here, in this loud and crowded space, listening to imbeciles tell stupid stories and make idiotic jokes, to please John. John had received the invitation to meet up with a few of the men from his old unit via his blog, and had immediately asked Sherlock to come with him. Sherlock, of course, had declined. Spending the evening listening to a bunch of meat-headed ex-soldiers reminisce about their juvenile shenanigans was certainly not his idea of a good time, and he had some interesting experiments to work on involving the reaction of flesh to various types of solvents, anyway. But John had given him the look, that wounded sad little look, and told him that he wanted to introduce Sherlock to his old friends because he was proud of him, of them, and Sherlock had given in. He reasoned that he could tolerate it for a night, if only to make John happy. Especially if John wanted to show him off.

So they had arrived at this dingy little pub, some distance from the flat on Baker Street in an area of London that Sherlock seldom had cause to visit, and Sherlock had immediately begun regretting his decision. The pub was packed with people and over their heads Sherlock could see a football match on the bar telly. The men John was so eager to see turned out to be a pack of mundane idiots, and although they were welcoming enough when John introduced Sherlock as his boyfriend, none of them had spoken to him since then. Of course, the immediate deductions he had made about one man's financial difficulties and his wife's infidelity might have contributed to that. John had elbowed him rather sharply in the side and apologized on his behalf, which was ridiculous, because he was not sorry in the slightest. John had brought him here to show him off, so Sherlock showed off. Yet, it was clear that John was not pleased. So Sherlock had decided to express his own displeasure with the situation by sulking.

And now John was not paying even the slightest amount of attention to him.

Sherlock shifted in his seat, accidentally-on-purpose kicking the leg of John's chair in the process, but John did not react, attention still directed at the idiot – Bill Murray, possibly – telling the current "funny" story. Sherlock idly listened with half of his attention as he let his gaze drift across the rest of John's friends, deducing: one was having an affair, two were worse off financially than Murray but working hard to hide that fact, one had only just recently learned that he had fathered a child before he left for Afghanistan, three were regular marijuana smokers, and one was using hard drugs. Tedious.

Sherlock turned his attention to John. John was clearly enjoying himself, throwing back pints and joining in the general merriment without reservation. He looked joyful, flushed from the drink and the heat of the crowded pub, grinning cheerfully at his friends. Sherlock felt annoyed as he took in John's delight with this pack of morons, and he found himself wanting to do something to prove to John that they were not worth his regard. Not like Sherlock was.

He turned his attention back to the speaker, almost certainly Murray, and allowed his mind to play back the story that Murray had been telling. It was some ridiculous thing about a local girl he met in Kabul while on leave, complete with flight from local authorities, liberating the girl from her tyrant father, helping the less fortunate, and of course quite a bit of passionate snogging. The entire story was clearly and obviously false, but every man at the table, including John, appeared to be hanging from his every word. Sherlock crossed his arms and settled back in his chair, content to wait until the story was done to speak his piece.

Finally, just as Sherlock's patience was running out, Murray reached the end of his silly tale. As the rest of the group made noises of appreciation, Sherlock launched his attack.

"Yes, yes, lovely story. Or it would have been, if it was not a total lie."

Everyone froze, and all eyes turned to Sherlock. John looked irritated, but that was fine. At least he was looking.

"Excuse me?" Murray asked calmly.

"That story was completely false. You obviously fabricated the whole thing in a sad attempt to impress this sorry group."

"Oh?" Murray leaned back in his seat, looking expectantly at Sherlock.

"Yes, clearly." Sherlock stood and placed his hands on the back of his chair, leaning forward and letting his coat flare out around him, well aware of the imposing figure he cut. "The bulk of it loosely followed the plot of the story of Robin Hood, although you were clever enough to modify the less believable portions. No one here would believe you were really that altruistic, of course. Also, you clearly do not know the city of Kabul very well at all, and many of the details you described are inaccurate for someone who has been there. Add that to the fact that you are clearly far more likely to have spent your leave with a man than a woman, and it is obvious that you made the whole thing up."

Despite the noise of the crowd around them, the sudden silence and stillness of the group at the table was striking. Sherlock straightened and lifted his chin, looking down his nose at Murray. There, now John would see what idiots these men were, and they could go home.

Then, to his shock, Murray burst out laughing.

"I'll tell you what, mate, daytime telly lost a bloody fine drama queen when you decided to go into detective work!" he exclaimed, still chuckling. The comment broke the ice, and then the rest of the group was laughing as well, including John.

Sherlock wavered, baffled by the reaction. He was expecting scorn or anger, not… this.

"Yes, okay, most of it was made up," Murray continued. The other men just laughed harder. "There was a guy, though, and his father really was a bastard. And we really did have to run from the local police. But the other way just makes a much better story."

"I'll say!" another man shouted, and the group was suddenly in hysterics again.

"Oh, this is ridiculous!" Sherlock snapped, irritated by the vapid laughter. He had clearly demonstrated to John, to everyone, that the man was lying to them, but it appeared that no one cared. They were still laughing, still chattering away like brainless morons, and John was still not paying any attention to him!

With a sharp "I'm leaving," Sherlock spun on his heel and marched out of the pub, throwing elbows and stomping on toes freely as the crowd jostled him. Behind him he heard a few voices raised at his departure, but whether in delight or protest he did not care to find out.

He burst out of the door, the cold air a shock to his system after the warmth inside. Immediately he clutched his coat tighter around him and set off down the street, his breath streaming out of his mouth in a white cloud and flowing back over his shoulder. The sight of it made him long for a cigarette.

Well then, he might just stop somewhere and buy a pack. He had quit – again – about a month ago, shortly after he and John had begun… dating, or whatever it was they were doing. He hated the look in John's eyes, concern and disappointment and sadness, every time he saw him smoking. But now he was not inclined to care what John thought. Let him get upset! He probably would not even notice, anyway, too busy mooning after his old friends.

Sherlock reached the end of the block and rounded the corner. This street was larger, and he might be able to find a cab here. He slowed down, watching the street for a cab, and then became aware of the sound of familiar hurrying footsteps behind him. He carefully did not turn or stop walking.

"Slow down, you bloody gazelle," John's voice came from behind him after a moment. He kept moving until he felt a warm hand on his arm. John pulled gently but firmly, stopping Sherlock and spinning him around until the two men were facing each other.

"You know," John said with a little smirk, "you're not doing the drama queen reputation any good when you flounce out in a huff."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I did not flounce. I simply refused to tolerate the presence of that group of idiots any longer."

"Right, of course. It had nothing to do with Bill ruining your little display in there by laughing."

"There was no 'display'! I was merely pointing out that he…" John interrupted Sherlock's protest by stepping forward until he was pressed along Sherlock's body and wrapping one hand around the back of his neck before pulling him down for a kiss.

The kiss was soft, sweet, and tender. John's mouth tasted sour and salty, the flavors of beer and chips clinging to his lips, but Sherlock opened his mouth and allowed John to push his tongue inside anyway, gripping his shoulders hard and squeezing his eyes shut.

"You're bloody adorable when you're sulking," John said when they broke apart. He was clearly a bit drunk. His expression was soft and a little foggy, he was blinking more rapidly than necessary, and he always swore more when he had been drinking.

"I wasn't…" Sherlock started before John cut him off with another kiss. This one was harder, John's tongue thrusting into Sherlock's mouth with unexpected force, and Sherlock let out a surprised moan before he could stop himself. John growled in response and kissed him even harder, pulling Sherlock tight against him.

John dropped his head and started sucking on Sherlock's neck, much harder than he normally did. Sherlock could already tell that he was going to have dark purple bruises on his throat from John's deep, sucking kisses and nips, but he could not be bothered to stop him. It felt too good.

Sherlock threw his head back and moaned again as John bit down a spot just behind his ear and sucked the soft skin between his teeth. The sensation of it shot a bolt of arousal straight to his cock, which was quickly growing hard. His eyes fluttered open and he focused on the streetlight above him for a moment before the sight reminded him that they were standing on a public street snogging like teenagers.

"John, wait, stop. We can't do this here," Sherlock managed to choke out, pushing weakly against John's shoulders.

John backed off of Sherlock's neck just enough to respond with "hmm, why not?" before continuing his ministrations on Sherlock's neck. Sherlock sighed at the sensation for a moment, and then pushed John backward again.

"John, we're in the middle of a public street. This is completely undignified."

This time John did back away, leaning backward to look up at Sherlock with a mischievous expression on his face. "Undignified, is it? Well, we can't have that." He stepped away from Sherlock and turned around, and Sherlock had to swallow his disappointment. He was the one who had asked John to stop, after all. But then John turned back to him wearing a cheeky grin and grabbed him by the sleeve.

"What are you doing?" he asked, but John did not respond. He dragged Sherlock forward into a tiny, nearly invisible gap between two buildings, the little crevice barely big enough to be appropriately termed an alley. Without slowing, John continued to pull him forward until they were both wedged in the small dark space, past the reach of the streetlights. Then John spun and pushed Sherlock back against the brick wall on one side and resumed his attack on his neck.

Sherlock let his head fall back and brought one hand up to thread his fingers through John's hair, groaning softly. He tried to protest again, but he could not find the words, so he just went limp and allowed John to do as he pleased, licking and sucking and biting, while the rough wall supported him.

After a moment, John broke off and grinned up at Sherlock, who struggled to collect himself.

"An alley? Really John?" he finally said in his best disdainful voice. John grinned wider.

"Don't think I can wait any longer. You're so fucking gorgeous, Sherlock. I've been dying to get my hands on that arse all night." John reached around and gripped Sherlock's arse with both hands as he spoke, squeezing hard. The unexpected sensation caused Sherlock to buck forward, pushing his erection against John's hip.

"God, John!"

"Oh yes," John purred out, brushing Sherlock's neck with his nose, exhaling warm breath softly over the sensitized skin. The feeling sent shivers of pleasure down Sherlock's spine, and he bucked against John's hip again.

"Maybe we should take this home," Sherlock whispered, leaning down and deliberately letting his own breath caress John's ear.

"Why?" John stepped forward until he had Sherlock pinned against the wall with the length of his body, pressing him firmly backwards.

"Oh come on, you can't really intend to do this here," Sherlock said disparagingly, although in his chest his heart beat harder at the thought. John did not move.

"Why not?" he asked into the skin at the base of Sherlock's throat before tracing a path to one collarbone with his tongue, at the same time rolling his hips to push his erection against Sherlock's thigh.

"John, seriously," Sherlock brought one hand up and pushed against John's shoulder, trying to make some space between them. This was ridiculous! There was no way John was proposing to shag him in an alley, no matter how drunk he was. That was not something John would ever do.

Before he knew what was happening, though, his hand was jerked from John's shoulder and he found himself being pushed much harder against the rough brick wall, John pinning the offending hand up beside his head with a strong grip, and John's other hand squeezing a fistful of his hair. He froze, looking down into John's eyes.

"Sherlock, stop." John's voice was cool, calm, and commanding, and Sherlock found himself wanting to obey it instinctively. He swallowed, and saw John's eyes drop to his throat before rising again to meet his. "You are so fucking incredible, you know. So fucking beautiful. And I intend to show you exactly how much I want you, right here and right now. Do you have a problem with that?"

A thousand responses passed through Sherlock's mind, ranging from this is insane to hurry up and suck my cock already, so it was to his complete surprise that, when he opened his mouth, all that escaped was a breathless little "no, John".

John smiled up at him, and his eyes were blazing intensely with some emotion Sherlock had not seen before. "That's right," he said, licking his lips. "Good boy."

Sherlock's mouth fell open and he sucked in a startled gasp of air. He wanted to tell John that he was not a dog, that John could not speak to him that way, but he did not. Because somehow, the words had gone straight to his cock, eliciting a strong wave of pleasure that temporarily obliterated his ability to talk. So instead he dropped his head back, causing John's grip on his hair to pull slightly, and moaned.

"Oh God," John breathed out. He brought his other hand up and tangled it into Sherlock's hair alongside the first, and then used the tight grip to pull Sherlock's head forward and down until their lips met. His hands were squeezing hard in Sherlock's hair, pulling with just enough force that it hurt, but somehow it felt good too. And at the same time, John was plundering Sherlock's mouth with his tongue, thrusting and licking with relentless enthusiasm, forcing him to submit to John's will. And as soon as Sherlock had that thought, another wave of pleasure washed through him, so strong that he could not help but buck up against John's body, seeking friction on his aching cock.

John broke away from Sherlock's mouth with a gasp and then jerked his head backwards, extending his long neck. He fell on it with his mouth, biting and sucking hard, worrying the flesh with nips and scrapes of his teeth. John had never done anything like this before, and Sherlock was having trouble processing it. John had been a good lover thus far in their relationship, certainly – kind and considerate and generous – but he had never even hinted at this type of force and passion. Sherlock was not sure what to think. It hurt, but again there was an undercurrent of pleasure that transformed the pain into something different, something intense and bright and consuming. The feeling washed through his mind and wiped it clean of all thoughts but one, and he heard himself softly chanting John's name, just that, over and over as he rode the waves of pleasure.

John finally stopped and stepped away, breathing hard. As John's body moved away from his Sherlock felt suddenly cold, alone, and he reached out to grab John and pull him back.

"Stop, don't move," John said, and Sherlock froze immediately, one hand still raised. "Put your arm up next to your head." Sherlock did, slowly moving his hand up and back until it was pressed against the brick wall behind him, much like John had done to him moments ago. Without being asked, he also pressed his other hand backward against the wall, splaying out his fingers. "Yeah, like that, stay just like that," John said, his voice a low dark purr. Sherlock shuddered.

John reached forward and slowly, carefully unbuttoned Sherlock's tight black shirt, each button making a little popping sound as it was worked free of its hole. He used only the tips of his fingers, and did not touch Sherlock at all as he did it. Sherlock writhed beneath his hands, fighting the urge to lean forward or push out his chest in search of that contact he craved, until John had opened his shirt completely.

Then John's hands fell to his trousers, and Sherlock lost the battle. As soon as those fingers came into contact with his flies he thrust his hips forward, almost involuntarily trying to get some friction on his throbbing erection. John's hands fell immediately to his sides, and Sherlock groaned in dismay.

"Hold. Still." John's voice was stern, commanding, and Sherlock almost bucked again at the sound of it, but he managed to keep himself in check. He closed his eyes and drew his lower lip between his teeth, biting down hard as John touched him again in an effort to distract himself from the light teasing brush of John's fingers against his hard cock.

He kept his eyes closed as John pulled his trousers and pants down to the tops of his thighs, freeing his trapped erection to the night air. He suddenly remembered that they were standing in an alley, only feet away from a well-travelled public street, that anyone could step into the narrow little corridor and see him like this. He was acutely aware of the brush of cold air along his cock, the sound of footsteps on the pavement beyond the alley, John's harsh breathing. With an effort, he fought his natural reaction to hide, to cover himself, and stayed still under John's gaze.

"God, so perfect," John whispered reverently, and Sherlock heard a rustling noise followed by a thump. He opened his eyes just in time to see the top of John's head as he knelt in front of Sherlock and leaned forward, and then John's mouth was wrapped around his cock, and it was heaven.

John's mouth was wet and hot and perfect, and Sherlock let his head fall backwards to rest against the wall as John sucked him in long slow pulls. Without thinking, he started to thrust in time with John's rhythm, and John's hands jumped to his hips to push him hard back against the wall and hold him there. With that forced immobility, Sherlock had absolutely no control over the situation, and this thought caused his cock to pulse inside John's mouth, getting impossibly harder.

After several minutes of slow easy sucking, during which Sherlock got more and more frantic, struggling and bucking against John's grip on his hips, John suddenly picked up the pace and started bobbing his head quickly up and down Sherlock's shaft. Sherlock nearly sobbed with relief. Then John let go of Sherlock's hip with one hand and instead moved that hand up Sherlock's body, scratching across his bare skin under the unbuttoned shirt until John's fingertips found his nipple.

Sherlock let out a loud gasp as John's finger brushed gently across his nipple before the tips of his fingers closed on the firm peak in a gentle pinch. John continued to work Sherlock's nipple with his fingertips, gently rolling and squeezing the hard little nub as he sucked.

Then, all at once, John took Sherlock's cock deep into his mouth and held it there, rolling his tongue along the length, and at the same time pinched Sherlock's nipple as hard as he could.

Sherlock cried out in surprise as the sudden, shocking pain lanced through him, changing instantly to pleasure and filling his entire body with a tight, tingling sensation. He mindlessly thrust forward, deeper into John's mouth, and arched his back. The dual sensations on his nipple and his cock throbbed in him, pulsing back and forth and resonating until he felt as if the sensation would rise up and engulf him completely. Pain and pleasure twisted together, dancing through his body and lighting up his nerves, and Sherlock felt himself surrender completely, his mind going entirely blank as he collapsed backward onto the wall behind him and whimpered.

John released his nipple and let the erect cock slip from his mouth. He stood, looking at Sherlock with a pleased expression and a happy smile.

"God, pet, you're so beautiful, so fucking gorgeous, you have no idea. So so good."

Sherlock groaned, unable to form words, and stayed slumped back against the wall. John's grin widened and he stepped forward, pressing his clothed body against Sherlock's bare skin. The disparity in their states of undress felt deliciously dirty, and he ground his naked cock against John's jeans wantonly.

John held up two fingers in front of Sherlock's mouth.

"Suck."

Before he could consciously process the command he found his mouth falling open, and John thrust his fingers in with no hesitation. He instantly sealed his lips around the fingers and sucked hard on them, at the same time laving them with his tongue and allowing his teeth to scrape softly across the wet skin. He looked directly into John's eyes as he did, and was rewarded with a hiss and a low moan as John stared back at him.

"That's right, get them nice and wet."

John drew his fingers out of Sherlock's mouth and tested the wetness. His eyes flicked to Sherlock's and he gave a quick little grin. Then he spat on his already wet fingers, smearing the saliva around with his thumb. Sherlock shivered.

John pressed in and wrapped his dry hand around Sherlock's back, urging him to lean forward, away from the wall. Sherlock did so, limply flopping against John's muscular chest instead, his head resting against John's shoulder.

John slid his wet hand into Sherlock's coat, past the open shirt, and let his fingers trail around Sherlock's flank and down the curve of his exposed arse. He probed gently for a brief moment, and then thrust one spit-slicked finger all the way into the tight passage, at the same time biting down hard on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock keened and arched his back, instantly spreading his legs as wide as he could within the confines of his trousers. John immediately started pumping his finger in and out of the tight ring of muscle while teasing Sherlock's skin with his teeth as the taller man writhed against him. Quickly, he added the second finger, still pumping steadily in and out, and the intense burning stretch of it pulled another long moan out of Sherlock.

Panting, John pulled his mouth from Sherlock's skin and turned until his lips were resting beside Sherlock's ear, close enough to brush against it when he started to speak in a low murmur.

"You're so tight, Sherlock. So good and tight for me. I love how this feels, my fingers inside you, so hot and wet. You're amazing like this, open and desperate, moaning like a whore. I'm going to fuck you, Sherlock. Right up against the wall in this dirty alley, I'm going to push my cock into that tight arse of yours and fuck you until you can't see straight. Does that sound good, Sherlock? Do you want me to fuck you in an alley?"

The friction in his arse and the beautiful filthy praise tumbling from John's mouth pushed Sherlock right to the edge, and again he felt his brain go silent as it was swamped with the intense sensations of pleasure and pain. The only thing he could do was buck and whine and listen to John's words, humiliating and tender by turns and somehow shockingly arousing. He did not register that John had asked him a question, and would not have been able to respond if he had, so caught up was he in the sensations pounding through his body.

Then he felt John's fingers fall still, deep in his arse, and heard John repeating his name. He pushed backwards, seeking more friction, and let out a sob of frustration when he could not find it. Then he felt a stinging pinch on his arse that shocked some awareness back into him.

"Sherlock." John's voice was flat and stern, and Sherlock worked hard to find his voice so that he could answer.

"Mmm, John," he managed after a moment.

"I asked you a question, Sherlock, and I expect an answer."

Sherlock blinked, realizing as he did that his eyes had been squeezed so tightly shut that the lids felt gummy. He lifted his head from John's shoulder and tried to look at him, but it was difficult to focus. He felt almost drunk, somehow, and his brain was working sluggishly.

"What?"

"I said, 'do you want me to fuck you up against the wall in this alley?'" John growled. As he spoke he pulled his fingers from Sherlock's arse and then pushed them in again once, twice, three times before falling still.

Sherlock gave a broken moan, his head dropping forward onto John's shoulder again, and pushed his arse back into the feeling. When John stopped, he forced himself to think about the question, and managed to formulate an answer.

"Yes, god yes," he said into John's coat, voice low and rough.

"Good."

With that, John shoved him backward by his shoulder, at the same time pulling his fingers from Sherlock's arse roughly. As he let himself be shoved, his head flopped back and connected forcefully with the brick wall, but he did not even notice. John pulled his trousers further down his thighs, making more space, and then reached around with both hands to grip his arse and lift him off the ground.

Sherlock instinctively wrapped his legs around John's waist as he was hoisted up, stretching hard against the confining trousers in order to reach. John pushed him back against the wall, letting him rest his weight against it, and then angled his legs so that his thighs were beneath Sherlock's arse, trapping him in position. The fabric of his trousers bit into his skin where they stretched across his thighs, the rough brick wall was hard and unyielding against his back, and the sense of being trapped there by John's body and his own clothing sent another bolt of pleasure blasting through him.

One hand left his arse briefly, and he heard the sound of a zip. Then John's palm was in front of his face.

"Spit."

Sherlock did it without thinking, spitting a gob of saliva onto John's hand. John withdrew his hand spat into it himself, and then dropped it back out of sight. A moment later, Sherlock felt John's hands grip his arse cheeks, pulling them apart and tilting him to the best angle. Then then head of John's cock, blunt and hard and wet with saliva, was pushing against his entrance.

Sherlock threw his head back as John pushed in, slowly but inexorably forcing his whole length into the tight hot passage. He was not prepared well and the saliva was not enough lubrication, and the painful burn as his hole was stretched roughly around John's cock was the single best feeling Sherlock had ever experienced.

The force of John's thrusts pushed Sherlock back against the brick wall, and his coat and shirt fell open, exposing his chest. He tossed his head back and forth, eyes closed tightly, and felt little pinpricks of pain in his scalp as strands of his hair caught on the rough bricks and pulled free. John's cock felt huge in his arse, and each steady thrust seemed to last forever, the push and pull of the hard length wringing shudders of ecstasy from his body. He whimpered.

"Oh, oh fuck," John whispered in front of him, his voice filled with awe. Sherlock whimpered again at the sound.

Suddenly, John shifted the angle, hunching his back and leaning forward to tease the bare skin of Sherlock's chest with his mouth. The new angle limited his motion but allowed him to go deeper, and he immediately started pumping in and out of Sherlock's arse with short, hard, deep strokes.

Sherlock could not stop the cry that escaped his mouth as the change in angle caused John's cock to drag across his prostate with every stroke. His voice was outside of his control, and incoherent babbling slipped continuously from his lips as John continued to ruthlessly thrust up into him.

And then John's teeth found one of his nipples, and bit.

Sherlock did not call out, could not, because his breath was stolen from his lungs by the force of the sensation that coursed through his body. Pleasure pulsed through him on a wave of white noise, filling him up and up with the force of it, and he lost all awareness of the world around him as he gave himself over to the power of it. The sensation kept rising, reaching an intensity that he had never known before and still it was increasing, and Sherlock was not sure that he could contain it any longer. The pleasure was so intense it hurt, coiling in his stomach and rippling up his spine, and he almost wanted to run away, to escape the sensation before the intensity of it broke him in half.

Just when he thought he could not stand it any longer, his orgasm struck him, knifing through the haze in his brain with a sharp stab of that pleasure that was also pain. He yelled out, thrashing in John's arms and banging his head hard on the brick wall behind him, cock pulsing semen out onto his own stomach, as he came without being touched for the first time in his life.

Finally the sensations receded and the fog lifted, and he came back to the sound of his own harsh panting breaths and John's voice, soft in his ear, moaning out a litany of "oh god, oh fuck, oh yes" as he pumped fast in and out of Sherlock's arse. He squeezed his legs tighter around John's waist and moaned again, deliberately, breathing out his warm breath onto John's neck.

With one loud cry, John thrust into him and held there, bucking slightly as he came into Sherlock's arse, softly mouthing the skin along Sherlock's neck. Sherlock held tight to John through it, murmuring nonsense as he continued to come back to himself. Then the two men held still, just resting with each other, as both attempted to recover. Finally, after several breaths, John carefully pulled out of Sherlock and gently lowered his legs to the ground.

"Hey, are you alright in there? I heard shouting," came a sudden unfamiliar voice, jarring them both out of their daze, and Sherlock looked past John's shoulder to see a middle-aged man peering into the dark of the little alley, squinting in an attempt to penetrate the darkness without actually stepping into the small space.

"Go away, we're fucking," Sherlock snapped back. The man's expression changed instantly to one of shock, and then embarrassment, before he disappeared from view. John froze, staring at Sherlock, and then suddenly dissolved into giggles. He collapsed forward, resting against Sherlock's chest and gripping the lapels of his coat as laughter rocked him, and Sherlock could not help but join in.

After a moment John recovered and leaned away from Sherlock, although he did not let go of his coat.

"Well," he said, amusement still evident on his face, "that was… fun."

"Indeed. Surprisingly intense, actually."

John smiled up at him, the usual sunny expression that always caused Sherlock's heart to beat just a little faster. "Yes, for me, too."

Sherlock nodded, and then looked down, flicking some lint off the sleeve of is coat. "If that is going to be your reaction every time you visit with acquaintances from the army, I might have to encourage you to do it more often… Captain."

John hummed, and Sherlock looked up to see him gazing back with his eyes narrowed and a pleased smirk on his face. "I don't think that will be necessary, actually." Sherlock smiled back. ""Well, I suppose we'd better get cleaned up before that guy comes back with the police."

John stepped back as much as he could in the tight space, and Sherlock looked him over. John looked mildly rumpled, but once he refastened his jeans there was barely any indication that he had engaged in any kind of strenuous activity, at least to eyes less observant than his. Sherlock, on the other hand, was a mess. His shirt was open and wrinkled up around his shoulders, and his bare stomach was covered in semen. His trousers were wrinkled and stretched from being pulled across his legs, and he could feel come dripping out of his arse and onto the fabric. He could not see it directly, but he was sure that his hair was a horrible mess from rubbing across the rough wall, and the skin of his neck must be covered in dark purple bruises.

As Sherlock moved to try to set his clothes to rights at least well enough to get home, John let out a slow breath.

"God you look incredible right now. I could stare at you forever," he said gently. Sherlock paused briefly to shoot him a quick smile and then continued trying to dress. "I'm sorry you were feeling ignored earlier," John went on. Sherlock paused again, surprised. He had not been sure John had even noticed.

"It's fine, John."

"No, listen. I want to make sure you know that just because I'm not talking to you every second, that doesn't mean that I'm ignoring you. Sometimes I'm going to want to talk to my friend instead, okay?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, John, I know. I'm not a child," he said in his best don't be an idiot voice. John just smiled gently.

"No, of course you're not." He paused. "Thanks for coming out with me tonight. I appreciate it."

"Well, don't expect it to happen again. I could feel my brain rotting just listening to those imbeciles and their idiotic stories."

John smiled wider. "I hope the night wasn't all bad, though."

To his surprise, Sherlock found himself flushing and dropping his eyes. "Um, no, some of it was pretty nice." John snorted a little laugh in response.

Sherlock decided that he was as presentable as he was going to get, so he started making his way out of the alley and back to the street, John following behind. When they emerged, Sherlock immediately stepped toward the street, already scanning for the familiar form of a cab.

"I'm going back to the pub," John declared from behind him. Sherlock turned to face him, eyebrows raised. "Hey, I still want to catch up with my old mates, okay? You go on home and clean up, I'll be along in a bit."

Sherlock nodded. "Anything would be better than going back there."

John gave him a smile, and then leaned forward for a kiss, tugging Sherlock's coat to pull him down into it. The kiss was slow and soft and gentle, a marked contrast to the heated snogging from moments before, and Sherlock felt a warm sensation bloom in his chest.

John pulled away slowly, looking at him with a tender expression.

"I love you," he said.

Sherlock froze, eyes roaming John's face for… he did not know what. Something, anything to prove that this was real, and not something he was dreaming or imagining. John just gazed back at him, smiling slightly.

"I'll see you when I get home, you daft berk," John said finally. He leaned up and kissed Sherlock again, just a light peck, and then turned and started to walk back the way he had come. Sherlock just stood rooted to the spot, lips parted, watching John leave. It was not until he reached the corner and turned, just about to step out of sight, that Sherlock found his voice again.

"John!" he yelled. John stopped and turned to face him. "Me, too."

John grinned back at him, the wide sunny grin that meant he was truly happy, and nodded. "I know."