John paced around the apartment, a grimace working its way across his features. The row had been... well, a bit not good. He hadn't _meant_ to let his guard down, to let his feelings known in such a delicate situation, but Sherlock had been so...
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Sherlock was thinking. That was how he spent most of his time, to be sure, but this mental study had engaged him for several days. He hadn't eaten, he hadn't slept, he simply reclined on the couch, eyes open, fingers steepled against the bow of his...
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Stalking through the dark London streets, a wide scowl stretched across his face, Sherlock fumed. He hadn't planned the discussion to turn so... hostile. It had been going so well, before she showed up- all long legs and disgustingly cheap perfume,...
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Regardless of what Sherlock thought of him, Greg Lestrade was a decently observant man. Hard work had earned him the position of Detective Inspector, and though Sherlock ranted and raved about the Met's efficiency, hardly any cases went unsolved under...
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John woke late, alone in an unfamiliar room. _Sherlock's,_ he thought, a lopsided grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. He stretched as he slipped out from under the sheets, his joints popping with relief, before he moved to the shower. Fifteen...
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Four days. He had sat in silence for four days thinking of John. His John? He wished. He could be. His pupils dilated in Sherlock's presence, his heart rate increased just enough to be visual, but still he held back. This was what occupied Sherlock's...
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John was staring. Jesus, he was staring. Sherlock was laying it on thick, his heavy-lidded eyes locked on the doctor's, his hand tracing lazy circles on John's chest. It was hard to think, hard to breathe, when he looked so ready to fuck.
"I want to...
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Scream? Surely not. Sherlock Holmes was not a screamer, nor was he one to give away the machinations of his mind. John could try. Oh god, he wanted him to try. He hadn't expected to be so carried away by the seas of lust suppressed inside of him, but...
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Sherlock knew that the most fascinating element of John Hamish Watson was his ability to be absolutely unpredictable. He had a habit of defying all of Sherlock's expectations, and it thrilled the detective. Here, unable to see, unable to touch, he knew...
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Beneath him, Sherlock was breathing slowly. The rise and fall of his chest was hypnotizing; John almost lost himself in the rhythm. He shook his head and focused, letting his hands brush the silk robe from Sherlock's shoulders. It pooled around him,...
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