Slight warning: mentions of adult activities ahead. Don't worry, there is nothing graphic, just some kinda hinted at smut. Proceed with very little caution.

As always, all mistakes are my own and I apologize in advance for any you may find. Thanks for reading!

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John woke to the sound of raindrops hitting glass. With his eyes still closed the rest of his senses were heightened, and every drop sounded ten times louder than normal. With a quiet sigh he turned his head to bury his face into his pillow, inhaling the sweet smell of expensive shampoo.

Something wasn't right. John's own pillows never smelled like this. Except after Sherlock had slept in his bed while John was away in Venice.

Sherlock.

John's eyes flew open and he looked around. All he could see was a wall. A blank wall that was not his bedroom wall. Still a bit groggy, John wasn't in a hurry to get up, and continued to lie on his side for several moments, attempting to gather his thoughts. Then he noticed a warm figure pressed against his back, an arm draped around his middle, and a large hand splayed out on his bare chest. He wasn't alone.

John struggled to look over his shoulder, and what he saw caused his breath to catch in the back of his throat. Sherlock was sleeping soundly behind him, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, completely silent. He looked beautiful.

"What the hell..." John muttered, wiping at his eyes with one hand. Sherlock stirred, and John froze, not yet prepared for what would happen next. His mind began running through various scenarios in which Sherlock opens his eyes, sees John laying shirtless in his bed, and everything goes downhill from there. John begins preparing himself for whatever choice words Sherlock would have for him, for invading his personal space in such a way, and for-

Sherlock stirs again, and stifles a yawn. John can't help but marvel at how Sherlock even makes waking up seem like the most graceful activity in the world. His eyes open slowly, meet with John's, then close again.

"Good morning John." His voice was groggy with sleep, and deeper than it usually was, and it sent John's sleep-dazed mind into a tizzy. Sherlock removed his arm and sat up. John sat up as well, and when he felt a strange ache in his bottom he winced slightly. With his eyes wide he turned to Sherlock, who just shrugged and looked away, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at his lips.

"I warned you."

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John rolled off of Sherlock and fell onto his back. He heard Sherlock's heavy breathing, and turned his head to see Sherlock staring up at the ceiling, a dazed expression on his face.

"You look utterly debauched," John remarked, reaching over to lightly stroke Sherlock's jaw with his fingertips. Sherlock gave a quiet hum in response and closed his eyes.

"Hm, yes, well... you would too if you'd just been..." Sherlock weakly waved a hand in the air, the gesture taking the place of the words he wouldn't say. John watched him curiously, his mind slowly beginning to formulate an idea as a new wave of arousal began building in his stomach.

"Does it really feel that good?" he asked. Sherlock turned his head and looked at him, a wicked smile growing on his face.

"Oh, god yes." Sherlock must have seen the look of interest that flashed across John's face, for his smile grew to twice its original size. "Would you like to find out?" John didn't hesitate before nodding his head, and before he knew what was going on Sherlock had climbed on top of him and was kissing him thoroughly, hands caressing the sides of John's face as he did so. He pulled back only a fraction to look into John's eyes, silently asking for reassurance, for permission, for confirmation, and John gave it to him with a single nod of the head. Sherlock nodded back, then began trailing a finger down the centre of John's chest. "Warning though, you might be a bit sore in the morning."

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John slowly leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, ignoring the pain of his stretch and letting out a shaky breath. The events of the previous night were starting to come back to him, and it was not good. The memory of skin against skin was both titillating and terrifying, and John wasn't sure how to react. All signs pointed to one thing only, and John could already feel the panic beginning to set in.

"Oh god," he said. "Oh... god. Oh my god!"

He slowly lifted the sheet, revealing the last bit of confirmation of what had happened. Both he and Sherlock were stark naked. This was very not good. John scrambled off of the bed, trying very hard not to show any discomfort, and began pacing pack and forth in front of the bed not caring that the entirety of his body was on display before Sherlock. From what he remembered he had no reason to be shy around Sherlock anymore.

"John?" The close proximity of Sherlock's voice actually managed to startle John for once, but somehow the feeling of a warm hand on his exposed lower back didn't. Despite everything in John's mind telling him to pull away he remained still. Sherlock moved his hand from John's back to his shoulder, and gave it a quick squeeze before he turned and walked away. John tried and failed not to stare at Sherlock's naked form as he strolled out of the room.

Now that he was left with only himself and his thoughts for company, John allowed himself to freak out just a tad. Though his memory was fuzzy he could remember a great deal of what had transpired the night before. He remembered a pair of bow shaped lips pressed roughly against his own, a pair of sinewy arms wrapped around him, nails digging into the skin of his back, and teeth nibbling at his neck, jaw, and collarbone. Sure enough, when he looked at himself in the mirror hanging on Sherlock's bedroom wall he saw that his torso was covered in scratches and bruises. It was visual, tactile evidence of John's infidelity and he could feel his hands trembling as he raked them through his shortly-cropped hair.

In all his life John had prided himself on his loyalty to his partners or significant others. Even when he was younger and much more foolish than he was now, he'd always known how far was too far, and was able to stop himself before things got to that point. Over then span of his lifetime John had had seventeen girlfriends, and he'd been one hundred percent faithful to them all. Even Carlie Maples who had cheated on him multiple times in very public ways. John still hadn't forgiven himself for staying with her for more than two months.

And yet here he was, several months into his relationship with Mary, whom he loved very much, and he's just slept with his former flatmate, who also just happens to be another man. John doesn't even want to think about the fact that he's cheated on Mary with Sherlock Holmes of all people, who he may or may not actually have romantic feelings for as well. John had yet to allow himself to come to that conclusion, to figure out if it was more than a physical attraction he'd felt towards the man, because if so he wasn't ready to face that emotional aspect of their affair. So he didn't focus on the memory of Sherlock's arms around him, holding him close. He didn't think about the way Sherlock's usually harsh voice had sounded whispering sweet nothings in his ear as they lay together afterwards, and he ignored the way his heart skipped a beat when he felt a pair of long, slender arms wrap around his waist from behind and a pair of soft lips place a kiss on his shoulder.

"Um, Sherlock?" he managed to say, his voice brittle and wavering. Sherlock must have noticed the strange waver in John's voice, but his response was only to hold John tighter, rather than release him, which was what he'd been hoping Sherlock would do. Still, John remained put and didn't try to escape Sherlock's hold, because as much as he hated to admit it, it felt really nice.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock's lips brushed against John's right ear as he spoke, and the feeling of his cool breath running down his neck made John's skin break out into goose flesh. He mustered up what little bit of his self control remained and stepped away from Sherlock, hanging his head so he wouldn't see Sherlock's expression in the mirror. "Is everything okay?"

No, John thought, everything was far from okay. He didn't say anything out loud though, and instead remained silent. Sherlock either mistook his silence as a 'yes' or didn't care enough to ask again, and John could hear him sit down on his bed. John turned away from the mirror and set about picking up the articles of clothing that had been thrown haphazardly onto the floor the previous night. He threw what belonged to Sherlock onto the bed, and pulled on his pants, jeans, and jumper when he found them.

"Where are my shoes?" he asked, trying hard to keep his voice flat. He looked in Sherlock's direction, but didn't meet his eyes. Sherlock finally seemed to realize something was off, and that something not good had happened. He stood up and immediately pulled on a blue silk house coat and started looking around the room. John dropped down onto his hands and knees; Perhaps they had been kicked underneath the bed some time during their hasty undressing.

"Wait no don't-"

John caught sight of a wooden box sitting underneath the bed before he sat back on his haunches and looked up at Sherlock. His eyes were wide and he looked absolutely terrified, and that terrified John. One of Sherlock's hands was outstretched, and his mouth was still hanging open slightly. When John's eyes met his, and he saw the genuine fear and distress in his eyes he frowned.

"What?" Sherlock's mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound came out. John's eyes wandered back to the space underneath the bed, then back to Sherlock, who was looking more and more like a thief caught red handed with each passing second. Without another word, John reached underneath the bed and pulled out the box. He held it up and raised his eyebrows.

"What's this?" Sherlock pulled his dressing gown tighter around himself and crossed his arms, glaring at John.

"Nothing of your concern, that's for sure." John placed the box onto the bed and stood up. Sherlock took a step backwards and crossed his arms, sticking his bottom lip out in a childish display of defiance. John pulled himself up to sit on Sherlock's bed and placed the box beside him. Sherlock eyed him warily from his place in the doorway, and when John reached over to flip open the latch on the box he rushed over to snatch it up, holding it close to himself as a mother ape might do with her baby. John noticed the sleeves of his house coat had drifted away from his wrists, and took the opportunity to reach out and grab Sherlock by the arm, being careful not to pull to hard for fear of the 'sacred' box falling. Sherlock sighed and let John examine his arm, and wouldn't meet his gaze.

"Really, Sherlock? You're back on-"

"Leave me alone."

"But Sherlock-"

"It's just stress relief, okay? Some people have yoga, others like to read by the fire, and I have my own... methods." Sherlock held up the box and shook it angrily, and John ran a hand over his face. He saw his phone lying on the ground several metres away and grabbed it, checking the time and cursing quietly when he realized he was supposed to have been at work a half hour ago.

"Shit, shit, shit!" He dropped back down to the floor and began searching around for his shoes, while Sherlock left the room, most likely to hide his box. John didn't say anything when he came back into the room and sat on his bed, because he was too busy looking for his shoes so he could get to work. After less than a minute John noticed a pair of large hands holding out his two shoes, and he took them wordlessly and finished getting dressed. He paused in the doorway and turned back to Sherlock.

"Look, I've got to go to work now, but I will be back, and we will talk." He started to go out the door, but paused to look over his shoulder at a guilty-looking Sherlock. "And you better be lucid."

John left without another word, and twenty minutes later he was sprinting through the halls of St. Bart's on his way to check in. He nearly bowled over Molly, who was coming out of the break room, when he looked down to read the text from Mary that said she was bringing him some work clothes, but didn't stop to apologize. He saved that for after he'd signed in and received a stern talking to from Dr. Wright. Molly had stood silently and listened as he apologized, and it wasn't until after he had finished talking that John noticed the disgusted look she had on her face.

"What is it?" Molly took a step forward and lowered her voice to a scarily quiet volume.

"I can smell him on you."

"I-"

"I know you stayed after everyone else left, you're late, your hair is all disheveled, as is the rest of you, you're wearing the same outfit you wore yesterday, and you smell like him." John opened his mouth to respond, but Molly raised her hand and brought it harshly across John's cheek. "How could you do that to Mary?!"

John found himself trying to find the words to say, trying to think of something to say, and not finding anything. And if things weren't going horribly enough, Mary just happened to show up at the precise moment Molly had slapped John and was now looking back and forth between them with a worried and confused look on her face.

"Do what to Mary?"