The first time, John just wanted him to shut up for a second, just to let him think, just one moment of silence, just to stop but that mouth wouldn't stop spitting facts and casual disgust in the way he did.

Sherlock Holmes, the man who sees everything, judges everyone, and the man that never shuts up, not ever.

"ridiculous, there are about 98 ways alone she couldn't have done it, god are people this stupid, I mean its obvious from her left heel, my god Lestrade's hit a new level of stupi-

And he just… snapped. Coarse hands had grabbed black hair and purple cloth and before he knew it, he had the genius slammed against the wall with a violent slam.

"i…urgh" whatever was coming out of that mouth next died, and finally, finally john had silence.

Except, it wasn't silent. Sherlock was… panting. His blue eyes looked glazed and his chest was heaving obviously under the tight purple shirt.

John couldn't believe what his eyes were telling him, what he knew. The army taught him to trust his own senses, but this was beyond comprehension.

"Sherlock, did I hurt you?" That had to be the reason, although more than most the Doctor knew the universal look of a human being in pain, and he knew that was the furthest thing from what he was seeing.

"Don't be ridiculous, john. Now, let me go. "The threat wasn't unnoticed, Sherlock might be thin but John didn't underestimate that he could be dangerous.

The tension was a physical presence in the room, as blue eyes burned down onto grey ones and neither man moved. Then, as he always did, Sherlock ruined it.

The taller man tried to throw off john, but the doctors stocky build proved that a moot action.

"no, no you don't."

John's hands found Sherlock's hair, and he pulled. Just hard enough to elicit a moan.

That sound, so natural, so human, from the great Sherlock Holmes. That would be enough to break any man, and John Watson was not blessed with superhuman self-control.

The kiss wasn't romantic or slow, it wasn't soft and sweet. It was like a war zone, two opposite forces colliding in a moment when only the baser urges of men were clear. Pain and sex, the two most fundamental motivators. Watson missed the battlefield, it was true, missed the rush of it, the adrenalin.

However the rush of taking control of Sherlock after so long, after so long without feeling alive, was so much better. He pulled the genius by the hair and attacked his mouth, hard, punishing.

Sherlock for his part was far from idle, and for a suspected virgin he was a quick learner. He fought back just as hard, clashing lounges, pressing hips, hands grabbing hard enough to leave bruises, bites, battle scars.

And then Watson moved his mouth and started biting a trail down the pale neck, and the IQ of the world's only consulting detective plummeted to about 60.

"ah-god, john!" he was incapable of forming sentences, let alone thoughts, it was all he could to keep his knees from buckling.

*RIP*

The tight purple silk was tore from his pale chest with little effort and Sherlock gasped as johns nails scraped down the newly exposed territory.

"Sherlock, bedroom, now, please…" it wasn't a request, and they staggered out of the living room, barely making it inside.

In the diogenes club Mycroft Holmes looked highly awkward as he examined the footage of the camera he had installed in 221B, and made a mental note to get one of his people to remove the camera as soon as possible and afford the boys some privacy.