The first time he tried it, he had never tasted anything like it.

As a man, so cultured and so well-versed in the world; one who could tell the age, country of origin, type of grape and even the shoe size of the presser of any wine you could think of and he did not know this taste. How peculiar, he thought, as he savoured the taste on his tongue. The hot, lavish slick feel caused avarice to prick at his skin and urged him to devour the moment with his whole mouth. Sherlock Holmes had never been one for greed, but excess? Excess suited him perfectly. Everything from his opulent charisma that caressed his very bones, as his skin did so elegantly, right down to the ground that adored his even weight and balanced statue of a body.

Temptation was the sweet wine of seduction and the sharp vinegar of regret; the siren with an angel's lips and a demon's tongue. Temptation was famed to taste of beauty and then spit your lust back in your face. Suddenly, Sherlock couldn't help but wonder; would John reciprocate his unbecoming lust? Temptation complied however, if only for a moment, before stilling him itself under the heat and deduction of the curious and fascinated detective.

"Sherlock?" John wondered aloud what that peculiar kiss was for.

"Yes, Doctor?" Sherlock asked flatly, a hint of intrigue played at his words, he was pleased with himself.

"What-what just happened?" The army doctor's skin began to warm under the contemplating breath of his flatmate. He could almost taste the excuse in the air; Sherlock's justification was almost tangible.

"I was curious," The detective began; half in complete control, half as naïve and as innocent as Sherlock could be. "John, I-"

"No-"

"It won't happen again."

"Don't apologise, Sherlock." John let a weak and unsure smile tug at the corners of his just-kissed mouth. The heady taste of Sherlock Holmes was heavy on his tongue as he swallowed consciously, but, without regret. Sherlock tasted like coffee and salt, almost like the scent of smoke curdled with the aroma of caramel to be more bitter than sweet, but John felt no urge to spit the taste away. "No apologies." John's statement was gentle, like he was letting Sherlock off easily because they were both confused by this matter and they couldn't think straight enough not to keep distorting each other's concentration.

"No promises." Sherlock whispered as he let John down from against the wall where his body had pinned his unsuspecting flatmate. John tasted like the sweet wine of seduction, just as Sherlock theorised he would.

John tore off to his right, headed towards the front door, as Sherlock darted to his right and up the stairs to the flat. John needed to shut himself out of 221B for an hour or two, Sherlock needed to lock himself into 221B forever. Neither looked the other in the eye as they paced to their separate escape routes. Their hands touched as they passed, as if they'd never touched at all.

'There's a first time for everything', John thought slowly, his nerves were lit up like erratic Christmas lights inside of him. 'Maybe it was the first time he's kissed anyone and I was just there, temptation or something, we all have urges I suppose,' John deliberated as he realised he didn't know where he was walking. 'Even Sherlock Holmes.'

"I bet it was for bloody science." John muttered almost scornfully at the bottle of milk in his hands. He could still taste the remnants of Sherlock's curiosity in his heated mouth; it was bittersweet now, like old wine and tea at once. He didn't quite know what to think but he was a doctor; and he knew that, medically, he was of sound mind although his residence with Sherlock may show to the contrary.

He was going to go home, to his flatmate, to 221B and not say a thing about their kiss.

Sherlock had just sat still, in his chair, with his knees tucked up to his chin and his arms wrapped around his legs to keep himself there. He was never out of spitting distance from his plaguing thoughts and curdling curiosity, Sherlock wasted his careful thoughts carelessly. Everything was spinning in his head, but not in the usual manner. It was as if his mind palace was being burgled of all of the sense and reasoning he had, so he was left with scattered sheets of innocent wonder, deep-seated fragility, tempestuous arrogance and a head full of secrets.

The only consulting detective in the world was more volatile than he'd anticipated at that moment in time, and John's absence was doing nothing to help, because his only constant of safety and certainty was gone. He had pushed him away, Sherlock deduced in anger. He alone had broken the doctor.

The detective stayed there and festered within his vast knowledge of everything but his heart. He waited to see if he was correct in his calculations, and for once in his life, Sherlock wished he was wrong.

"Sherlock, I'm back." John shouted from the kitchen as he walked into the living room. The television was on but no one was there. "I got milk; don't know if we needed any, we probably do." His volume lowered to just loud enough should he need to coax Sherlock from sleep, self-appreciating or self-loathing. The living room was devoid of human life and the TV only had static on it. "Sherlock?" John called out as he picked up the half-full mug of tea from the coffee table. "Sherlock, where are you?" He knew that Sherlock was still in the flat because his coat was nestled on John's chair. Sherlock shoes were in the room too, one on the floor and one next to John's laptop on the far side of the room, having obviously been thrown there. It was then that his worry began to calm itself, because when Sherlock let his temper take control he became predictable and almost boring. When Sherlock was swayed by his diluted rage, John could hold Sherlock quietly and calm him down.

The doctor breathed in deeply, inhaling the common, desirable scent of his flatmate and weighed up the possibilities as to where the elusive detective could be. Sherlock's bedroom; perhaps, but his coat just left there? John's bedroom; less likely, and the coat still wouldn't just be left there. The bathroom; more likely, and that would explain Sherlock's clothes strewn across the living room.

John couldn't hear any distinct breathing, which troubled him, so he went with his gut instinct and paced to the bathroom. The door was ajar before he nudged it open with his fingertips, but the key was in the lock on the inside of the door yet it hadn't been turned. There were expensive clothes angrily tossed into the far right corner of the room.

The army doctor's heart sank as he stepped further into the bathroom, trying to stop his eyes from falling upon the sight of Sherlock Holmes' figure in a bath full of water, not breathing. John tried to swallow back the rising panic from his throat but his heart was in the way. In a morose way, Sherlock looked truly serene and radiant beneath the water. John walked to beside the bath and stared at his flatmate for a split-second before he felt his hands tangle around Sherlock's in hurried aid. Sherlock was beautiful underwater, naked and still, John had never seen him so peaceful. The doctor's strong, war-worn fingers fought with the ugly rope tied around Sherlock's wrists as it suspended his arms above his head, where the rope hooked around the taps, submerging the detective completely.

"Sherlock, Shh-" John asked his flatmate in wavering earnest, feeling his hands shake against Sherlock's cool skin. "Sherlock!" He shouted without thought, plunging his left hand beneath the searing cold water to wrestle with Sherlock's body, sliding his right hand between the rope and the taps to ease the two apart. His movements were as violent they were brief, tugging Sherlock's limp, almost icy hands from around the taps. John let his grip on his flatmate's wrists drop and he jammed his arms, elbow deep, into the stinging water and around his flatmate. "Sherlock, please. Don't-please!" He nearly begged at the body, softly distraught.

Neither men were breathing as John's professional instincts urged him to slip his hands under Sherlock's neck and head, to pull Sherlock's flaccid body up from the weight of the emotionless water. John wrapped his rough hands around the detective's torso to yank him out of the water further. Teasing his eyelids apart quickly, pressing the heel of his frantic hands against Holmes' chest where his heart should be.

Sherlock's eyes flickered faintly as water spilt from his slack but sculpted mouth. His lips fell apart a little as he coughed slightly; inhaling suddenly like breathing was the only thing he knew. John tore his searching eyes away from their unfocussed glances at Sherlock's face, watching his hands fly up to touch Sherlock's lower lip, staring intently at Sherlock's twitching eyelids.

"Joh-" Sherlock gurgled. He spat water with an affluent grace that distracted John from his patient's needs. John heard him and didn't simultaneously. He was ignorant of the consequences for the first time in his life when he moved without a seconds thought. The doctor in him pushed their loose mouths together and breathed out. The lover within him cradled Sherlock's neck and breathed in as their tongues wrapped around each other's effortlessly.

It was heartfelt and hard, not gentle like they'd wanted, but John was desperate and Sherlock was nearly comatose. It wasn't perfect or romantic, but it was honest, and it was theirs.

Observing Sherlock breathe was like John was learning to breathe again himself, taking in every second greedily and without regret. The rise and fall of his pale chest under the tight sheets of John's bed settled John's heart to only simmer contently. The doctor's bedroom was quiet for all but breathing, as it had been for almost an hour, until John's low words hung in the near-silence.

"Sherlock?" John was subtle; he didn't want to wake Sherlock if he was asleep.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock croaked. His words were discreet though, he hadn't spoken in a while.

"You had rope around your wrists," The concerned doctor started, softly as ever.

"Yes." The detective was clipped in his words, like John's statement wasn't a problem. His lean body turned over beneath old sheets to face John when he spoke.

"Why?" His words fell silent as their eyes crossed paths in the darkness of the ill-lit room.

"I was at peace." He stated matter-of-factly, retaining the quiet resonance they held as they were washed with conscious nonchalance.

"Sherlock,"

"Don't, John," Sherlock ordered softly, he didn't want to fight right now. He was at war with himself enough, he didn't want to be at war with his only friend in the world too.

"No," John's protest was defiant but tender.

"Don't, please-" The detective's tone was relenting but sharp.

"You tied your wrists above your head and drowned yourself." It sounded so harsh when John mapped it out loud. The air grew tense between them. "That is not peace."

"I don't see how my peace is any of your business, John." Bitterness echoed in Sherlock's unfelt and hollow words. Their conversation was heading down a long, dark, winding road that neither wanted dearly to go down.

"It is completely my business; you arrogant, self-centred sod." John's words weren't hurtful; they just defended his honest heart. "You could have died, Sherlock. You could have died." The temperate room became their tomb once more.

Nothing was uttered for minutes. The air was heavy all of a sudden as the sound of bunching sheets played against the subtle noise of John's feet padding towards the bed.

"I'm plagued by demons, John. Demons that won't let me sleep." Sherlock whispered into the comforting darkness. He wasn't sorrowful; his stony tone wouldn't let him weaken into anything other than superiority. The detective made it sound as if he was privileged to be in such a Hell; like it was his own special prize and his reward for such intelligence. A warm hand around his aching wrist jerked him from his encompassing self-loathing at his sickening honesty. Why was he so weak that he would pour his mind into John's awaiting palms?

"Demons that wrap around your wrists and pull you under the water, Sherlock?" John's question didn't ask for an answer. "That's not peace; not yours, not mine, not by anyone's reasoning." His hand rested on Sherlock's wrists as he lay beside his flatmate, facing him straight on. Sherlock froze at their proximity, not moving a muscle as John soaked in his barely-visible, shadowed image.

The doctor inched his head closer to the detective's as Sherlock shut his eyes tightly, hiding inside his wild mind. Breathing surely against his porcelain, angled face, John looked deeply into Sherlock's closed eyes, letting his lips fall open loosely. He ran two fingers from Sherlock's temple down his jaw and to his neck. John pressed his words gently against Sherlock's firm lips.

"You're a liar, Sherlock, Holmes, and you know it."