Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sherlock stood in the lab at Saint Bart's, looking through the viewer of a microscope. He had had a revelation the night before. He was in love with John Watson. Being in love was a concept that he had never would have applied to himself. He didn't do relationships, per se. Sherlock had attempted one night stands back in uni, but nothing had ever come of them. To top it all off, he was on love with a heterosexual man. Bugger.

Molly entered the lab, two cups of coffee in hand. “I thought... That is, you looked like you could use something to drink,” she said, ducking her head shyly.

Glancing at her, Sherlock gave a small half smile. “Thank you, Molly.” She beamed. It struck him all at once just how incredibly cruel he had been to Molly over the years. It was so obvious. The look that she wore on her face echoed his feelings for John. It was a look of longing hedged about by the certainty of rejection. He really was the prat that John named him on occasion. Sherlock looked at her more fully. “Um, Molly. There's something you should know.”

Molly's eyes flicked up to meet his, slightly hopeful. “Okay...“

Sherlock decided it was best to inflict the wound cleanly and efficiently. He would do his best to cauterise it when he was done. “This will be hard for you to hear, but you need to know.” The now fearful look on Molly’s made his newfound heart ache in sympathy. “Just promise me you'll hear me out.”

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Molly agreed. “Okay. I can do that.”

The next words out of his mouth were ones that Sherlock had never given voice to, not to Mycroft or even his parents. “I'm gay, Molly.”

Lips trembling, Molly looked down and let out a quiet “Oh.” Her cheeks flushed brightly and she started to bolt.

Sherlock reached out and grasped her wrist. “You promised, Molly.”

Mutely, she nodded, feeling trapped.

“For how I've treated you in the past, I apologise.” Sherlock's tone was earnest. If he had only known how much wanting someone could hurt, he would never have manipulated poor Molly so cruelly. “You are kind and gentle and unexpectedly brave. You're a lovely woman. I just thought you deserved to know that I can never love you, not like you want.”

Summoning the fortitude that had served her so well in the past, Molly asked, “Why? Why tell me now? I mean, I'm glad you're being h... Honest with me, but just... why now?” She forced herself to look into his eyes and what she saw there was shocking. His face was open, unlike she had ever seen it before and it wasn't an act. What she saw there was pain. Oh, the poor man. “Who is it?”

“I don't know what you mean,” Sherlock said as he turned back to the microscope. He had opened himself up too much in his revelation to Molly. He wasn't about to say any more. Just then his phone buzzed. It was laying on the counter close to Molly.

Molly picked the phone up to hand it to Sherlock. Glancing at the screen, she announced, “It's a text from John.”

A slow flush crept up Sherlock's neck as he took the phone. He cleared his throat.

“Thank you, Molly.” The text was a simple inquiry.

Picking up dinner. Thai or Japanese? – JW

Sherlock was continually amazed at how effortlessly John cared for him. Whatever his need, be it food, sleep, or the protection that only a trained fighter could possess, John provided it. There was one need that John would never be able to provide, however, and that ate at Sherlock's soul.

Molly must have read something in his expression, because her face softened. Good, sweet Molly, shifted from hurt to comforting in the blink of an eye. “Oh, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stiffened. “I don't need your pity.”

“Look at me, please,” Molly requested.

Bracing himself, Sherlock turned away from the microscope and back to face her.

“It’s not pity. It's understanding. I k... Know how you feel.” Molly charged on. “But, don't you see? It's not the same for you.”

Sherlock clamped his jaw tightly shut. It was the same. He was in love with someone that he could never have. No, it was worse. He lived with John. Sherlock had watched as the doctor dragged one girlfriend after another through their flat and through their lives. So what, if none of them stayed? One of them would, someday. Some woman would realise just how amazing John was and that would be the end. John would walk out of Sherlock's life just as easily as he had walked into it.

He must have begun hyperventilating, because Molly dumped her lunch from a brown bag and handed it to him. Sherlock breathed into the bag feeling like a fool. This is what love does to you, he thought. It makes you weak.

When he had recovered from his small panic attack, Sherlock observed, “You're not supposed to have food in here.”

“Or coffee, either, but there you have it.” Molly gave him a sad smile. She now knew, had always known really, that she could never have the brilliant detective, but she still cared for him deeply. She always would. John would have recognised the love that spurred her to speak. It was a selfless love. “John c... Calls you an idiot, sometimes.” Sherlock looked at her questioningly. “He’s r... Right, because you've never noticed how he looks at you or the things he says. His eyes light up then he says ‘brilliant’ or ‘amazing’ and when he does that, he's completely lost in you.”

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed. Those things that John said were all about the detective's intelligence. “You might as well suggest that he loves a machine.”

Something snapped inside Molly. Sherlock could have love and all that entailed. She slapped him hard. “Don't you ever,” she said coldly, “say something like that. Maybe you don't think much of my intelligence or my tastes in men, but I know for a fact that you respect John. Don't belittle his feelings for you. He loves you and it’s as simple as that.”

“I...” Sherlock was at a loss for words, something that had never happened before in his life. “Sorry, Molly. I don't think you’re a complete idiot.” Probably a bit not good, Sherlock thought. “I mean...”

“I know what you mean, Sherlock,” Molly's voice had gone soft again. “Just don't be miserable when you don't have to. Tell him.”

Hand rubbing his stinging cheek, Sherlock nodded. Maybe Molly had a point.

Both Sherlock and Molly looked up as John walked into the lab, hands full of takeout. He was as dismissive of the rules as Molly had been. “I figured you'd still be here. You haven't eaten for two days. There's no case on, so,” he sat the food down pointedly by the detective's hand. “Eat.”

Molly decided it was time for her to leave. She gave Sherlock a meaningful glance as she paused in the doorway. “Remember what I said.”

“What was that all about,” John asked. At Sherlock's dismissive wave, the doctor shrugged and promptly forgot about it. “You never answered my text, you know, so Japanese it is.”

“Spider roll,” Sherlock asked, his mind racing. Was Molly right? Did John feel something for him more than the platonic? He wanted to shout at John. Ask him. Kiss him. Anything.

“And miso soup, house salad and a chef’s variety of other sushi,” finished John, oblivious to the thoughts running through Sherlock's mind.

Instead of acting on his need to know, Sherlock reached over and snagged a pair of chopsticks and one of the salads. He was supposed to be fearless. Sherlock knew the truth – love had made him a coward.

Chapter Text

Okay, so Japanese had been a bad idea, John thought. He corrected himself - bringing Japanese into the lab had been a bad idea. Sherlock had dove right in without so much as removing his gloves and washing his hands, the lazy git. At least he was using chopsticks. Still. "Oi! Sherlock. Hands," John complained.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, though he was secretly pleased by his doctor's concern. "I'm using chopsticks, John."

"Yes, and now they're contaminated. Throw them away, toss the gloves and. Wash. Your. Hands." John pointed from Sherlock to the sink.

Sherlock gave a calculatedly martyred sigh as he complied with John's orders. "What am I supposed to eat with," he asked petulantly.

"We'll share chopsticks. No problem," came John's reply. Sherlock wasn't one to share. The doctor figured that his friend might actually eat more than usual simply by virtue of constantly moving the chopsticks from plate to mouth in an effort to keep the chopsticks away from John.

It didn’t turn out that way, though. They passed the chopsticks back and forth, their fingers brushing against each other several times. That was more than fine with John. He loved touching Sherlock’s elegant hands. They were pale like alabaster, but were incredibly warm. John had spent so many hours looking at Sherlock’s hands that he knew them as well as his own. The fingers of the detective’s right hand were soft, with the occasion small scar from past experiments gone wrong. The fingers of Sherlock’s left hand had calloused pads from playing the violin and held just as many small scars. There was nothing that John could find to dislike about them.

For Sherlock’s part, he purposefully brought their fingers into contact each time they exchanged chopsticks. He was performing a small experiment to test at the edges of Molly’s theory. He knew that they had always been more tactile than was strictly necessary. Just how far it could be pushed remained to be seen. It was strange, but he found the brief moments of contact between them to be highly satisfying. Still, after the chopsticks changed hands several times, the detective decided reluctantly that his transport had been fuelled enough.

John disagreed with Sherlock’s silent assessment. "You haven't even touched the Spider Roll. Open," John ordered. He knew he could push it. It was Sherlock's favourite. When the detective's pink lips parted, John used the chopsticks to feed him a piece of the sushi roll.

Sherlock shivered. Being fed like that by his blogger was almost more than the detective could bear. Maybe he could eat a bit more. He wished that he had dropped the remaining pair of chopsticks or contrived to break them, then John would have had to use his fingers to feed him.

The doctor alternated between feeding himself and feeding Sherlock. Even as part of John marvelled at how much of the Omakase Sherlock was eating, another part of him simply enjoyed watching the movements of the detective’s lovely lips. They were almost entrancing. All too soon, they had run out of food. Amazingly, John had got an entire meal into Sherlock. It was one of the oddest meals they had shared, eaten as it was in the lab with John feeding the detective using a shared pair of chopsticks. Still, if it worked, who was John to complain? (Especially since he had enjoyed it so much!)

Clearing his throat, Sherlock started removing the detritus left over from the takeaway meal.

John gaped. “Feeling guilty about something, Sherlock?” John teased. The detective regarded him with a “You are such an idiot” look. The doctor had to laugh at that. “It’s just that, you know, you don’t do that.” He gestured towards where Sherlock was binning the refuse.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I have been known to clean on occasion, even without your constant nagging. It’s not that momentous an event.”

"Right," John said wryly, "and I solve murders on a regular basis."

Something in the doctor's tone disturbed Sherlock. He turned to regard him more fully. "I detect an underlying meaning there."

"It's nothing Sherlock. I was just being silly. Forget it." John was annoyed with himself. He had been feeling so nice, completely relaxed. Then he had cocked it up.

It wasn't as if John were jealous of Sherlock. Far from it. He knew very well how his friend's genius had caused the detective to struggle with the vagaries of everyday life. Sherlock had been driven to drugs in an effort to cope. A fact that saddened the doctor whenever he thought of it.

The thing was, cleaning up after Sherlock was part of what John did. Seeing the other man do it had made him realise just how unnecessary he really was to the detective's life. He knew it was absurd to let such a small thing affect him so, but the fact was, it had. It wasn't the first time he had felt that way either. Sometimes he felt as though he were nothing more than a tool to Sherlock, to be used and then discarded. He was useful. He kept the detective's transport fuelled, rested and protected. Dr. Frankland had been right, John was essentially Sherlock's PA. He wanted to be so much more than that. John groaned and rubbed at his eyes.

Perhaps Sherlock felt incapable of determining how John felt about him romantically, but he had been able to read everything else that had just passed through John's mind. "Forgetting it" was absolutely not an option. "John," Sherlock began, "you're essential..."

"To The Work," John supplied resignedly. "Yes, you've told me that before. I am capable of remembering our conversations." At that moment, the doctor couldn't have cared less about The Work.

"That's not precisely right," Sherlock replied. At the wounded look on John's face, he began to wonder. Why did his words affect the doctor so? Was it really possible that Molly was correct? "The fake drugs bust during our first case. I'm sure you remember, John." The doctor grunted in the affirmative. "If Greg hadn't called it off, they would have found my stash. I hadn't had time to hide it properly."

John's left hand clenched into a first. He hadn't been able to believe what Lestrade was suggesting at the time, but he had had ample opportunity to see Sherlock struggle with his addiction since then. If he could, he would reach inside the detective and rip his addiction right out of him.

Sherlock continued, determined to be honest. "The next few months, I craved it more than you can know."

"You ransacked the flat, Sherlock. You were rather frantic about it, actually." John shook his head, remembering sadly. "I noticed."

"Of course you did, but you're not an addict. You don't know." Sherlock's voice gave the last word extra meaning. He rushed on, "my point is, I had a stash and I never used it. I could have done, at any time, but I didn't. Because of you." He irrationally willed John to understand, to hear the words that he hadn't spoken.

"I don't... Why should that have mattered? You don't care what anyone thinks." John's brow had drawn down in confusion. They had still been getting to know one another at the time. They hadn't truly even been friends yet, though John recalled that he had already been feeling a painful attraction to Sherlock. It had grown to be so much stronger now.

"It's gone. In case you were wondering. I eventually flushed it. Again, because of you." Sherlock watched John's face closely. Was that a flicker of hope in John's eyes? "Don't you see? You're more important to me than a brief drug-induced high," he paused, "or my own safety, as you have complained to no end, or even..." The detective moved to stand in front of John, his hand rising to hover just millimetres from the doctor's jaw. "The Work."

John's pupils had blown satisfyingly wide. Both his breathing and heart rate had increased. Most satisfyingly of all, he had leaned into Sherlock's hand, turned his head and kissed the detective's palm. The detective gave a shiver of pleasure.

The lab doors parted as Molly entered, arms heavily laden. She took one look at the two men and let out a small embarrassed gasp. Molly started to back out of the lab, but her load slipped. Ever the gentleman, John raced to her side and gave her a hand. "Thanks," she murmured, cheeked flushed. Together, they sat everything down on a table. "So," she glanced sidewise at Sherlock, "you two t... talked?" It was more of a question than a statement.

"Not as such, no," Sherlock said. "Although, I believe that we were communicating rather well. John?"

The doctor blushed. Apparently, he had been the subject of conversion. He gave himself a shake. Sherlock was waiting for a response. John's blush depended. "Right. I think we were." He cleared his throat. "Could we maybe continue 'communicating' back home?" be asked hopefully.

Molly felt the tiniest pang of jealousy as she watched them leave. It died quickly though. She genuinely liked John. As for Sherlock, her feelings for him were still raw. Somehow, that didn't seem to matter. She just wanted them to be happy.

Chapter Text

They didn't talk about what had happened in the lab during the cab ride home. It wasn't that there was awkwardness between them. It was more that words weren't necessary. Sherlock had placed his hand on the seat between them, palm up, and John had taken it in his own hand. The glances that they exchanged grew increasingly heated as they approached the flat. By the time they arrived outside 221, the sexual tension had grown to be almost palpable.

For once, John climbed out of the cab first, leaving Sherlock to toss some notes in the cabby's direction. The doctor fumbled with his keys, in a hurry to get them both inside. At the touch of Sherlock's hands on his hips from behind, John turned around to face him. John was standing one step above the detective which gave him an inch in height on Sherlock. Impulsively, John reached out and pulled Sherlock in for a kiss. The kiss was disappointingly brief as far as John was concerned. He regarded Sherlock with concern and sudden doubt. "Was that not..."

The detective interrupted, "Mycroft."

John's looked over Sherlock's shoulder to the CCTV camera across the way. "I don't give a fuck what your brother thinks," he said with some heat. Then a creeping worry entered his mind. "Unless you don't want him to know."

"It's fine," Sherlock responded. "I just thought you might be uncomfortable. After all, you're the one who always said you weren't gay."

"Hmm, well I'm not." Sherlock raised one eyebrow and pulled back slightly. John hastened to reassure him, "I'm yours, though. Completely. Figured that out a while back. Enough talk. Let's get inside."

Together they made their way upstairs, Sherlock following close behind his blogger. There was another brief tussle with keys and the lock to 221B during which the detective wrapped his arms around John's waist and placed light kisses to the side of the doctor's neck.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John said as his eyes fell momentarily shut. The doctor's body was responding with enthusiastic interest. He dropped the keys. Sherlock went down on one knee to retrieve them. As he stood back up, he ran his empty hand along the length of John's thigh. He gave a little squeeze to John's bum, then leaning on and around the doctor, he deftly unlocked the door. They stumbled through with very little dignity, but that was far from the forefront of either of their thoughts. Their stumbling coming to a halt, Sherlock steadied John by placing his hands on the doctor's shoulders.

"We're inside," Sherlock pronounced with a sly grin. He slid his hands down John's back, grasped his arse and pulled the doctor towards him. Their pelvises ground together, cocks pressed pleasantly between them. The detective let out a broken gasp.

"Ungh, Sherlock. We need... bed." John had had his sexual identity crisis months ago. With its resolution, he had come to realise that he simply wanted Sherlock. To hell with finding a label that fit himself. Now his want was burning bright in him, threatening to consume him if it wasn't met.

"My room," Sherlock urged, "it's closer." He moved reluctantly back from John. Even the brief time it would require to reach his room was far too long to do without his blogger's touch so he took John's hand and pulled.

Once in Sherlock's room, John reclaimed his hand and started undressing. He had stripped down to his pants, his fingers dipping beneath their waistband, when he noticed that Sherlock was still fully clothed. The detective noticed John noticing and blushed.

Sherlock felt ridiculous for being nervous. John had seen him in various states of undress before. In fact, there wasn't a single square inch of his body that the doctor hadn't seen at some point. This was different, however. John would be regarding him in a sexual way and if what he saw didn't appeal to him, then this would all be over before it truly began.

John stepped up to Sherlock and reached hesitantly for the buttons of his shirt. When the detective didn't pull away, John started unbuttoning it. "I never figured you for being shy," John said, smiling up at him.

Sherlock mustered his best indignant glare. "Absurd," came his simple denial. "You've seen it all before. Why would I be shy?"

"I have seen it all before, and I must say, I quite like what I've seen," John's smile was lopsided. "And you are shy. It's adorable."

The detective would have protested the use of that word to describe himself, but just as he opened his mouth, John grasped Sherlock's cock through his trousers. Sherlock gasped instead, his hand moving to cover John's own. "John," he breathed, sounding broken. "This is... I don't know..." He gave up trying to talk and tipped his head forward so that his forehead rested against John's.

The detective's broken words and actions served to raise a question that John hadn't even thought to ask before. "Are you a virgin?" he asked gently.

Screwing his face up tightly, Sherlock replied, "Yes. Does that matter?"

"A bit, Sherlock, yeah." John suppressed a laugh. The last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to think he was laughing at him. A thought occurred to him. "Why me? After all this time, why choose me?"

"Because you're not ordinary. You're brave, caring, considerate, not an idiot and... you put up with me."

"I don't just put up with you, Sherlock. I love you, you git. But those things you said, they're not reasons to have sex with someone." John shook his head and took a step back. "They're reasons to send a card on someone's birthday."

The detective was frustrated. He took a step forward, restoring their proximity. Sherlock gave a small growl. "It's not like that. You like being with me and I like being with you. You make me happy, John. I used to live from case to case, before you came along."

"Still do," John groused jokingly.

Giving the doctor a scathing look, Sherlock continued. "Now, I have you to make the rest of my life bearable. No. Not just bearable, but wonderful. I suppose, if you need to hear it, I... love you too." His tone was dry, but his smile and the crinkles about his eyes communicated just how much his saying those words truly meant.

John grinned like an idiot, his heart swelling. "That's... God, Sherlock, that's the most incredible thing anyone's ever said to me." The detective's answering smile was perhaps the most sincere one that John had ever seen on Sherlock's face.

Chapter Text

Clearing his throat, John reached for the buttons of Sherlock's shirt once again. He deftly slid the last two buttons through the button holes. Next, John slipped his hands under Sherlock's open shirt and pressed them to the detective's sides. His skin was warm and soft to the touch over hard ribs. "Have I told you how beautiful you are," John asked.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut, his lashes fanning darkly over his cheeks. "Not explicitly," he breathed, "however it was implied... "

The doctor cut him off with a warm exploratory kiss. This kiss was far better than their previous one. This time, John was able to enjoy the press of Sherlock's soft lips. He was able to taste the other man's sweet mouth and explore the feel of Sherlock's tongue. "Hmm, such a lovely, wonderful mouth." John smiled. "You are, you know. Beautiful."

Sherlock blushed once again. John would never grow tired of seeing it, he knew, but Sherlock would no doubt overcome his embarrassment soon enough. The doctor decided to enjoy it while it lasted.

Sherlock's shirt had bunched at his elbows. Unfastening the buttons at his cuffs, John assisted the detective out of his shirt. He leaned forward and ghosted his lips over the flesh just above Sherlock's heart. The detective let out a needy moan. "Shh," John soothed even as he moved his mouth to hover over detective's nipple. With a groan, the doctor laved his tongue over Sherlock's hard little nub.

"Oh, God, John," Sherlock cried brokenly. "That's..."

"Just the beginning, Love." John fought back a self satisfied smirk. He was so intent on making Sherlock's first time amazing that he completely forgot to be nervous about being with a man. John moved his hands to the fastening of Sherlock's trousers. "Is this alright?" John asked.

It was so much more than alright that Sherlock didn't know how to express it in words. Rather than trying, he gave a little nod then ducked his head down to rest in the crook of John's neck. He found that he rather liked it there at the juncture of John's neck and shoulder. It was warm and comfortable and it smelled of tea and, Sherlock breathed in deeply, eel sauce. He laughed. The detective had expected the scent of gun oil and wool. He turned his head and snaked his tongue out over John's jawline. "Mmm, salty," he muttered as he wrapped his arms around his blogger's torso. Sherlock let his hands wander

John hesitated. "I could get a shower," he offered.

Sherlock let out a low growl and licked just a bit lower. "No. It tastes like you. I want to catalogue every nuance of scent and taste over every centimetre of your body. And when we're done and you've come spectacularly, I want to collect a few drops of your sweat. I'll analyse it and determine its specific chemical makeup. Maybe I'll be able to synthesise it." He smiled into John's neck.

"That's... disgusting, Sherlock." Even as he said it, John laughed. The whole concept was so uniquely Sherlock. John gasped. Sherlock's hand had found his scar. The doctor could feel long fingers prying at its edges. He suppressed a shudder. Of course, Sherlock would gravitate to that spot. The git probably wanted to examine it visually. "Go ahead, then," he said indulgently, "You can look. Go get your magnifying glass."

Sherlock pulled back and rushed towards the living room to fetch his magnifying glass from his coat pocket. His trousers fell down around his thighs and he stumbled awkwardly before toeing off his shoes and peeling his trousers off. When he returned to the bedroom, he removed his pants at well and crowded John towards the bed. They both fell onto its surface in an undignified heap. Sherlock straddled the doctor's hips and started studying John's scar. It was incredibly fascinating. He poked at its silvery center. "Was it pink, before," Sherlock asked.

"It was an angry red for the longest. Then it faded. I couldn't stand it, all reddish and glassy smooth." John still hated it. It was ugly and it reminded him of all the things about himself that he had lost. As Sherlock's fingers and eyes examined his scar, the doctor had an abrupt realisation. He had gained so much more than he had lost. John had Sherlock now. That would never have happened if he hadn't been shot.

As if their minds were somehow connected, Sherlock said, "your scar is beautiful, John. It brought you to me." He abruptly realised that what he said had sounded a bit not good. "Not that I'm glad you were hurt. I'm just glad you're here, with me."

That was it. John had to feel Sherlock's body against him now. He pulled the detective to him and rolled them over so that he was on top. John reached between them and grasped Sherlock's hardened cock. He gave it three long strokes then ran his thumb over its tip.

"J... John," Sherlock groaned.

John removed his hand so that he could get even closer to the detective. His hips shifted and, all at once their cocks came into contact with each other. Their cocks shifted and rubbed together, their smooth surfaces allowing for a glide of flesh against flesh. John began rutting mindlessly against Sherlock. His tongue peeked out between his lips and his face flushed bright red.

"God. You're lovely, John," Sherlock panted.

"I'm really n... not."

"Yes, you are. Oh! Do that again, John," Sherlock said in response to a wet kiss that the doctor had placed on the long column of his neck. Hips pausing, John lavished attention on every centimetre of his partner's lovely throat. When a drop off precome fell from the doctor's cock onto Sherlock's stomach, the detective's eyes shot wide open. "John... I'm so close. I need you to touch me."

The doctor happily obliged, reaching down to take Sherlock in hand. Now he stroked the detective in earnest. Through the crackling sparks that threatened at the edges of his mind, it occurred to Sherlock that he should be reciprocating. Fumbling blindly, he brought his hand up to grasp the doctor's cock. Sherlock's movements were uncoordinated as he slid his hand over John's erection. Somehow that didn't seem to matter to the doctor. Just being touched by Sherlock was enough

The detective let out an incongruously soft "Oh!" then his muscles went taut. The sparks flooded fully into his mind. If he had been in any state to notice it, Sherlock would have seen the sparks invading each corridor of his Mind Palace. Later, he world see their incandescence lighting every nook and cranny. Now, it was all he could do to ride the tide of his release.

When the detective felt the first warm splashes of John's semen on his chest and stomach, he shivered and jerked again. John had wanted him, had come because of him, had marked him with his seed. "John. John. John," he chanted.

The doctor fell to his side and started giggling madly. Sherlock was unsure how to react to that, but he simply felt too good to take offense. "John?"

Rolling onto his side, John kissed Sherlock's shoulder between giggles. "Endorphins. Makes me laugh every time." He grinned broadly then slid one leg over Sherlock's. His foot encountered a sock. "Oh, God," he groaned. "Really, Sherlock?"

"What," the detective asked, confused.

"We just made love. With your socks still on."

"Not good?"

John began laughing madly again. "It's just a bit... You know, odd."

Sherlock tried to salvage his dignity. "I shall endeavour to remove them first next time."

"Next time," John said dreamily. "I like that idea. Besides," he nudged Sherlock, "You forgot to smell and taste me."

"I believe I stated my intentions more eloquently than that," the detective groused. Before John could respond to that, Sherlock had leapt from the bed and run from the room.

"Sherlock," John called. "What the bloody hell!?"

The detective's happy voice echoed down the hallway. "Sweat!"