I won't kill you. (SherlockxMoriarty, violent)

As John grabbed his hips and forced him down further it was as if he was slipping even deeper inside him, although he didn't think that were possible and he groaned loudly.

Suddenly every thrust sent powerful surges of pleasure racing through every inch of his body unlike anything he had ever experienced. "Jjjohn," he gurgled almost incoherently.

The friction was beginning to loosen him up and the heavenly sensations were over riding the slight dull pain he still felt.

Sherlock placed his hands on either side of John's waist, and used the power in his upper thighs to begin moving up and down on top of him, slowly at first, then gradually increasing as he realised he was now the one in control.

He just loved the way Sherlock called his name, so needy and overwhelmed, it was even better than he had imagined.
"Good boy," he exclaimed once Sherlock started doing what he was told, most of John's muscles relaxing right away, exhausted, he was perfectly happy letting the detective do everything.

It was fascinating to see Sherlock taken by his senses, knowing that it was his cock that he was riding, and the pleasure created by the friction only added to it.
"Just like that, Sherlock, yes," he exclaimed, his hips rolling against him, trying to meet his thrusts, while his hand searched for Sherlock's arousal, fingers soon wrapping around it and squeezing it.

Sherlock could feel the muscles in his thighs getting a decent work out as he lifted himself repeatedly up and down, using his hips as extra leverage to thrust himself onto John again and again, encouraged by his words and the look on his face.

By now he had long since forgotten the initial pain of penetration and his mind was lost in the intensity of their movements, shuddering and gasping every time John's length brushed that little sweet spot deep inside of him, his eyes moving in and out of focus on his lover's face.

When John's hand found his arousal the pleasure doubled and he let out a loud moan of delight, his head tossed back, face contorted with pleasure. "God...John...bloody hell," he gasped, eyes widening.

John smirked, his lips trembling for the sparks of pleasure that travelled up and down his body. "You like that, Sherlock?" He teased him, pumping harder on his length, enjoying how thick and heavy he felt in his hand.

"Come for me then, come, Sherlock," he urged him, feeling his arousal twitch with need. He was so close. "Ride me until we are both empty, Sherlock, come on," he insisted, his voice low and husky.

"Y-yes," Sherlock managed to reply. Of course he bloody liked it, he felt like saying, it was incredible.

He tossed his head back and dug his nails into John's shoulders as he began to ride him harder, lifting himself almost completely off and out before slamming back down till John's arousal filled him up completely again.

Sherlock struggled to refocus his eyes, he was dizzy and giddy from excitement, but he wanted to see what John's face looked like when he orgasmed. He'd been wondering about it for some time now and was fascinated to see the result.

He began to push even harder for the final stretch, going as fast as he could, beads of sweat prickling the back of his neck, overwhelming sensations building up inside his stomach and a tingling in his toes.

"John...John I think I'm...I think I'm...ohh...ohhh God...fuck," Sherlock found himself letting out a string of expletives mixed with John's name as he finally toppled over the edge into heavenly oblivion.

John's pupils were wide with pleasure, his heart was crazy in his chest, pumping in time with every deep thrust. Sherlock was amazing, riding him like there was no tomorrow, their bodies meeting in waves of heat and sweat, it was just pure perfection.

"Jesus, Sherlock," he exclaimed when he felt muscles clench around his arousal and he was none too gently pushed over the edge.
The wave of pleasure was strong and overwhelming, making him utterly incoherent.
"Sherlock, yes, baby, yes," he whimpered and moaned, not even noticing the nails in his shoulders, his hand milking Sherlock slowly as they rode their orgasm together.

Sherlock was quite sure it was the most incredible feeling he'd ever had, better than any of the times he'd brought himself to climax with his own hand, better than any of the drugs he'd ever taken.

John seemed to have this way of making the pleasure last for longer, the way he slowly continued the gentle movements of his hand, and Sherlock gradually stopped his own thrusts as he eventually came to a halt, John still buried deep inside him but completely spent, neither of them able to continue.

He felt his body sagging and he practically fell down onto John's chest, exhausted, before he rolled off to one side, frowning at the unusual sensation of John's cock gradùally slipping out.

He lay flat on his back, panting, his heart still racing, his mind and body still coming down off that high, rendering him utterly unable to speak.

John didn't want to move, the pleasure fading but leaving a blissful feeling soaking through his muscles as they relaxed. He was exhausted, but happy, a feeling he hadn't had in a while, his mind finally empty of his dark thoughts. It was temporary maybe, but John wasn't questioning it now, he was determined to fully enjoy it.

They did it, they fucked, and judging by the way Sherlock collapsed and rolled on his side, he was rather sure he had fucked him senseless.
And God, he was so beautiful, disheveled and naked right beside him, John couldn't help his hands from moving on him, caressing over the pale skin of his chest, drawing invisible patterns, just enjoying the feeling under his fingers.

As for silence, he was perfectly okay with it for now.

Sherlock gasped, his chest still aching from the exertion. What a great way to exercise, he thought to himself with a smile, then decided he wanted to look at John. Needed to look at John.

His friend's fingers were dancing across his chest, giving him shivers. Sherlock clasped John's hand in his, and rolled over onto his side, smiling as he saw the exhausted satisfied look on his face.

"I...I liked it," he admitted with a smirk. "Did you? And will you let me make you breakfast now? The last lot I made you went cold..." And he indicated the discarded tea and toast with a wave of his hand.

John couldn't help the grin on his lips: "So did I," he muttered, and looked at him slowly. "I reckon you'll have a bit of trouble walking, but again, you aren't the only one," he joked, touching his useless leg absent-mindedly.

"I would prefer you get my wheelchair so I can go to the bathroom... breakfast can wait," he commented, and pinched Sherlock's nipple. "Or maybe you can get me a wheelchair and you can prepare my breakfast while I have a short bath... that'd be useful."

He remembered something then. "First you throw out whatever is left of those drugs," he ordered, his eyes narrowing in warning.

"Sure, I'll get your chair," Sherlock nodded, hoisting himself up to a sitting position which instantly made him cry out a little at the shock of sudden pain. He hadn't quite realised how sore he was down there and turned to John with a grin.

He stood up off the bed, his legs weak and shaking, and hobbled towards the door, imagining he looked a bit like a cowboy after a particularly long horse ride. "Bloody hell John, what have you done to me?" He winced, but wasn't really complaining.

Sherlock got to the door and stopped, turning more serious when John mentioned the drugs. "I don't need them anymore John," he replied. "Not now I've got you. I...I have...got you...haven't I John?" He added cautiously, hopeful.

John's satisfaction made him grin as he watched Sherlock hobble and limp, checking out his delicious ass at the moment was just heightening John's post-orgasmic bliss.
"I might have abused you a bit, but nothing you can't take," he commented, moving to sit up.

The words bought him down to earth a bit and he thought about what best to reply for a moment.
"I am not sure what you mean by 'having me', but I am here and I can't really run away with this leg now, can I," he muttered non-committant. He had no idea what Sherlock wanted, and John had no idea what he could really offer in his mental and physical condition.

This probably was supposed to never happen, especially not when Sherlock was high from using drugs, it was all wrong and dysfunctional, but John felt better than he did before, and he had no other place to be. If this was the way to rekindle their trust, then maybe it was worth exploring.

It wasn't quite the answer Sherlock was looking for and for a moment he stood in the doorway feeling a little sad.

He wanted John to say it was all OK, that they were friends, best friends, forever, and possibly something more. He wanted John to say he forgave him, that he understood why everything had to happen the way it did and that he didn't blame Sherlock for any of it. He wanted John to say he would never leave, that he'd always be there, that he cared about him, that he loved him.

"Back in a minute," Sherlock mumbled quietly before quickly leaving the room.

He grabbed John's chair from its hiding place and returned, wheeling it into the room, it just about fit through the door but it was quite a squeeze.

John saw Sherlock hesitate in the doorway, he was clearly unhappy of his reply and for a moment he could see on his face that his friend really wanted more from him. He didn't talk though, and John didn't dare ask, knowing that at the moment he might end up making promises he wouldn't be able to keep.

At the moment John had really lost his compass, he had no idea what was right or wrong any more, and watching Sherlock disappear made him wonder what he was doing really. He couldn't jump in a relationship when he wasn't well with himself in the first place, but at the same time, Sherlock was the only thing standing in between him and suicide.

He grinned when his wheelchair came back, "Finally," he exclaimed, moving to the side of the bed, not caring that he was naked, after all he needed a bath, and Sherlock had seen everything there was to see already.

Sherlock brought the chair to the edge of the bed, watching as John sat up, his eyes quickly glancing over him, something stirring again between his legs. It scared him how much sexual thoughts about John now dominated his mind. He wanted John to take him all over again, he could almost imagine the pain, relish in it. God he'd never realised before how amazing this could be.

Sherlock considered offering a helping hand to his friend, but then he remembered how disabled people liked to be independant, and so stood back, watching as John did all the work himself.

John noticed the gaze, and for a moment he was tempted to say something else to make Sherlock feel better. He didn't, eventually, concentrating on making his way to the bathroom instead. "Maybe you should start making breakfast, instead of staring at me naked," he suggested, before he managed to get through the door and towards the bathroom.

It took him a while to be able to take a bath, and once he was going back to the living room he had to admit that he was quite exhausted. To think they were only at the beginning of the day, he told himself bitterly.

Sherlock chuckled to himself, quite amused that John was demanding breakfast to be made. It was almost like a complete role reversal and his friend had certainly changed quite a bit since everything had happened. He couldn't exactly blame him though, it had been quite a tough time for them both.

"Of course John," he smiled. "Breakfast coming right up." Sherlock made his way to the kitchen and opened the door of the fridge with a groan. He really should have done some shopping before John had arrived. All he had in were experiments and body parts. No, wait. Right at the back behind a severed arm were a couple of eggs. He reached out and grabbed them.

Next he tried to find a pan. Luckily there was still one on the hob from where he'd made the pasta the previous night. The inside was still stained with the excess dried tomato based sauce but that wasn't a problem. He poured some oil in and cracked open the eggs, frying them up lightly.

"Now...bread, bread," he muttered to himself. "I'm sure I..." He opened up cupboard after cupboard trying to locate the bread. "Yes! Success," he exclaimed. There was half a loaf next to the oxalic acid. There were a few bits of mould just starting to form but Sherlock picked them out with his fingers and popped them into a dish for a new mould experiment. Once the bread was as good as new he popped it in the toaster then turned on the kettle.

By the time John wheeled back through after his bath, breakfast had been served - egg on toast and a cup of tea. "Sorry there was no margarine," Sherlock mumbled as he lay the plates down on the table and pulled up a chair for himself, digging in quite hungrily.

(Sherlock should not be allowed to cook any more, it makes me not want to eat ever again)

John looked at the breakfast a bit suspiciously once he got out of the bathroom, he knew for a fact that he was not supposed to trust Sherlock near food, but it looked quite nice and he was hungry.
He wheeled himself close to the table and started eating, it tasted alright.

When he started looking around, he felt his stomach closing up again. "You never clean, do you... this kitchen looks... gruesome. You really need to get someone to clean this if you aren't going to do it," he commented, pushing the plate away and sipping his tea, his eyes falling into the cup, unconsciously checking whether anything strange was floating in it.

((Haha, Sherlock should have his own restaurant!))


Sherlock was quite impressed with his efforts in the kitchen, although admittedly, the breakfast he had made wasn't as tasty as one of John's that he used to do back at Baker Street. Never the less, it was all he needed to keep him going for the rest of the day. Food wasn't exactly important, just something neccessary to stay alive.

He was pleased when John began to eat the meal, then disappointed when he pushed it away only half finished. "You should eat," he insisted, "you always used to tell me off for not eating. Don't make me have to tell you off."

Sherlock glanced round the kitchen wondering what John was going on about, it really didn't look that bad to him. "Cleaning is boring John," he moaned. "I've got more important things to do." He took another mouthful of egg on toast, then added, "I did hire a cleaner a while back, but she quit after one day."

John looked at him with a smirk: "I would really like to see you telling me off," he commented, he really couldn't picture Sherlock doing that, it surely would be an interesting experience if he pulled it off though.

"I don't care whether it's boring or not, you need some hygiene if you don't want to die of some sort of unknown infection. It's ridiculous," he commented, rolling his eyes when he was told about the cleaning lady. "Let me guess, she found the body parts? Or was it because you deduced her husband had an affair?" he commented, pulling away from the table, it was starting to dawn on him, what had just happened between them, they had sex, him and Sherlock had sex.
What the hell had he been thinking?

Sherlock grabbed John's uneaten egg on toast and wolfed it down. He hadn't exactly been eating properly recently, and he was bloody starving.

"Hmm, that's good...sometimes I even surprise myself," he joked arrogantly, before standing up and picking up both the plates, throwing them into the sink.

"She didn't actually give a reason," he shrugged. "Just left after the first day and never came back. I can't think what I did wrong." Sherlock leant his back against the kitchen work surface and looked at John, who had suddenly fallen silent, wishing he could read his thoughts, but making a deduction instead, as to what was playing on his mind. It was on his mind too. The pain in his ass still throbbed and ached where John had roughly penetrated him, and Sherlock couldn't stop thinking about it. Nothing had ever made him feel so incredible before, and he wanted to chase that high again and again. He just hoped John wasn't starting to regret it.

"I love you," he said suddenly, his thoughts spilling out into his words. Sherlock walked towards John and ran his fingers gently through his friend's hair. "I don't want you to worry about anything."

"Looking at the flat, it seems quite obvious why, it looks horrible, like you can catch something just by sitting in it," he commented, sighing as he rested his back on the chair. The flat was very nice and well-decorated, but Sherlock had made it beyond messy. "I don't even know how you managed to make it so dirty..."

He looked at the detective suspiciously as he walked closer, but the words that spilled from his lips were unexpected and he found himself frowning.

"Don't be ridiculous," he mumbled, shaking his head. "This is not love, it's a very dysfunctional friendship... you were as high as a kite and I don't know what has gotten into me," he bit on his lower lip, his thoughts running a mile a minute, "I guess I just wanted to have power over you for once..."

Sherlock frowned. He didn't exactly agree with John's words. He felt he did love him, but then, he didn't exactly know much about love, there was a chance he was wrong.

"I don't care," he protested, but couldn't think of reasons to contradict him further. It hadn't exactly been the most loving and tender of first times, he thought with a small smirk. Not that he cared.

Sherlock couldn't help feeling a little disappointed that John wanted to dismiss the whole thing so quickly, but he realised his friend was in a strange state of mind, in all likelihood due to his deterioration in physical health, and he didn't want to push the point any further.

"Well," he announced, clapping his hands together once and jumping into action. "If you've finished with your breakfast, we should probably get started with the training."