Toy (Sherlock Phoenix x John Hamish Watson)

John ran through the corridors as fast as he could, his chest aching, his muscles straining. It had been a long while since he'd got this much exercise.

He burst into room after room, finding them all empty, fear rising in his chest. Something bad was going on, he just knew it. He was pretty sure the serial killer didn't bring Sherlock here just to talk to him, and whatever bad things Sherlock had done in his life he didn't deserve to die, no one did.

He crashed through yet another classroom door, this time catching a glimpse of something out of the window that made his heart turn cold. He was in the wrong bloody building, he should have took the other one, because there was Sherlock and the cab driver standing near the window of the room opposite.

John ran to the window trying to see what they were doing, narrowing his eyes, squinting. It didn't look like Sherlock was in immediate danger but then he noticed the tiny pill in his hand, millimetres away from his mouth, and another one in the cabbie's hand.

"Sherlock!" He shouted through the windows but of course he couldn't hear. What were they doing? He knew the other victims had all been apparent suicides but Sherlock had discovered them to be murders so was this how he did it? They took pills together and one of them ended up dead? Whatever it was John knew there was no way he could let Sherlock take that pill.

Before he'd even had time to think it over, the gun had been whipped from inside his jacket pocket and John was aiming right at the cabbie and he fired once, straight into his chest. As soon as it was done he ran from the window, darting down the stairs to make his way into the other building and find Sherlock.

The gunshot was sudden and deafening, Sherlock started and his eyes widened as he saw the cabbie's chest fill with blood.
He turned around swiftly, jumping over a desk to see the hole through the window. "Jesus Christ," he exclaimed, it had been quite the crack shot, coming from the other building.

He grabbed the pill tight in his hand and went to loom over the cab driver, the man was spasming and panting.
"Which one was it? Was I right?" He asked, his eyes widened in annoyance, but the man refused to answer.

"Damn it!" he exclaimed, throwing the pill to the floor, frustrated, once again looking back at the hole in the window.

Who had saved him?

He had been in immediate danger, someone with a strong moral sense, but also nerves of steel, to be able to fire from that distance and so precisely.
"John?" he exclaimed, disbelief painted on his face.

John killed a man for him?
Why?
Wasn't his mission to infiltrate his family? To destroy his family and get everyone convicted? The what the hell was he doing?

He looked at the dying cabbie on the floor, and shook his head.
"Sorry," he exclaimed, and moved to leave, hearing steps approaching.
They had to leave before the police got there.

John darted down the stairs and back outside, quickly running over to the other building and pounding up the stairs again, trying to work out where Sherlock's room was in relation to the room in the opposite building. By the time he found it he was breathless and exhausted.

He noticed the dead or dying cabbie with a slight twitch of his eye but realised he felt no guilt. He ran up to Sherlock and instinctively grabbed hold of the criminals hand.

"Are you alright?" He looked him up and down, searching for damage, medical training kicking in. He seemed relatively unscathed, his pupils a little dilated like he was on something, although John realised the cabbie must have drugged him. "You were gonna take that pill weren't you?" He scolded, shaking his head.

When John appeared in front of him, Sherlock was surprised to see worry in his eyes, his own widening when he felt the touch on his hand.
He looked at it, he looked at John's fingers around his palm, and he moved his hand, turning it around so that it slotted into John's comfortably, not caring whether that had been the undercover agent's intension or not.

"I am fine, he... drugged me... but I can move now," he commented unphazed, as if the matter hardly concerned him, he was looking at the room to take in as many information as he could, nothing really seemed to be useful at the moment.

He looked at John curiously at the question, still absolutely confused by the apprehension in the other's voice. Why? Why did he care? Was he such a good actor or were there real feelings behind this?
Sherlock had no idea why he felt it was endearing, while he had always felt irritated by people's attention.

"Of course not, I was stalling, waiting for your arrival," he lied with a laugh, squeezing his hand and pulling him towards the exit. "We need to be out of here before the police comes, we have roughly 6 minutes and 48 seconds considering the zone," he muttered, picking up his pace. "I am starving also, we should get take out on the way home," he added, realizing his whole body still felt sore for the drugs.

John gasped slightly when Sherlock himself so they were actually holding hands. One part of him wanted to pull away but he didn't. He made no attempt to protest or resist.

He told himself it was because he didn't want to upset Sherlock, but he knew there was more to it than that. He'd just killed a man for Sherlock. Not a very nice man, but a living breathing man none the less. And for some inexplicable reason, John actually liked the way it felt when Sherlock was holding his hand.

"I guess we'd better go then," he mumbled, when his friend talked about the police, and he allowed himself to be led from the room and out onto the street.

"Food sounds good," John agreed enthusiastically. "Didn't really get chance to finish my last lot."

When they were outside, Sherlock noticed the cab waiting for them, he let go of John's hand, naturally shy, but looked at him with a grin. "Good job, John," he muttered, knowing it had been him who had asked the taxi to stay. They needed it.

He slid inside a bit clumsily, still rather sore from the drugs cursing in his veins.

"What was that gun shot? Are you the police?" asked the cabbie, rather alarmed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he leaned back in the seat, of course, it was a miracle the man decided to stay at all.
"We caught a very dangerous criminal today, you might be given a medal," he muttered, eyes cold and surgical as they moved on the man, finding the strength and the weakness of his history.

"Now bring us home, we need to rest," he exclaimed, absent-mindedly resting his head on John's shoulder as he looked outside the window, taken by his own thoughts.

John slid into the cab next to Sherlock, leaning forward to give the cabbie the extra money he'd promised.

"Thank you so much for waiting," he said genuinely. "And yes, you've done a good deed."

The driver looked quite pleased with himself. John gave him the address and with a small nod he set off.

John sat back in his seat and suddenly Sherlock's head was on his shoulder. At first he tensed at the close contact, then relented. There was nothing wrong with it after all. It had been an exhausting day. He rested his head back and closed his eyes, and despite all his best efforts, pretty soon he felt his neck leaning to one side and his head ended up resting on top of Sherlock's as he drifted in and out of sleep.

Sherlock noticed swiftly how the driver seemed to believe John's words more easily than his, it was peculiar, the undercover agent seemed to inspire trust. How ironic, considering he was the one who had more to keep to secrecy.
Sherlock had always been good at manipulating people and in his job line, he had always had plenty of opportunity to practice, but John seemed to be an absolute natural at it, he seemed to be able to fool Sherlock as well.

At the moment the criminal wasn't sure he did it on purpose though, especially not when he felt him tense under his touch, but then relax, placing his head on his, in what was nothing but an adorable gesture.

Sherlock pulled away suddenly when he saw their headquarters approaching, taking out a 50 quid bill and handing it to the driver, before he rushed out of the cab.
He couldn't believe his heart, beating this fast over such a stupid thing, but he couldn't believe what had happened either. The whole day seemed surreal at the moment.

"We'll get someone to deliver," he said suddenly, turning to wait for John, he had completely forgotten about food, too taken by what had happened between them.
He had to do something about this. He couldn't afford to lose his focus.

John was asleep by the time the cab arrived back at the compound, suddenly jerked awake by Sherlock's movements.

"Uhh..." He groaned and undid his seat belt, jumping out of the vehicle and once again thanking the driver.

John noticed with a smile that Sherlock had waited for him. "Delivery sounds fine," he agreed. "We going to go and hang out in your office?"

He suddenly regretted the question, thinking he may have been a bit too presumptious. Sherlock was supposed to be his boss after all, he couldn't just go inviting himself into the man's office. Somehow though, after all they'd been through that night, he felt their relationship had changed slightly.

He was surprised to find he had stopped viewing Sherlock as a criminal, and now viewed him with a certain amount of affection and respect. He was clever, intelligent, brilliant even. And he was discovering he could be quite a decent bloke when he wanted to as well. The prospect of spending more time with him was exciting.

John was so easy to read, even that small smile as he walked towards him, he was clearly pleased to see Sherlock wait for him, and the criminal felt the urge to push him away, to prove that he wasn't getting attached to him, but he didn't. He just didn't.

"Of course," he said simply, as if John had no reason to ask, it did seem obvious that he'd want to pass the evening with the only person who knew what had happened today. He couldn't tell anyone else after all.
And he wasn't even going to give John the option to leave, he needed him there, he needed to talk, and there was also a small plan forming in the back of his head that he considered following.

"Would you mind calling for the food while I update my notes?" he asked as they walked the corridor to his office, the people they passed were quick to duck away, scared they would get all their secrets exposed if they so much as looked at Sherlock. He wasn't exactly popular.

As John strode down the corridor with Sherlock it reminded him of his days as an ordinary cop before he went undercover. Those times when he'd just got back to the station with his partner after solving a case or catching a criminal, and that sense of pride as they strode through the corridor together. He felt that same feeling right at that moment, side by side with Sherlock. He knew it didn't make any sense, but he felt proud to be associated with him.

When they got back to the office and Sherlock asked whether he could order the food, he jumped at the chance eagerly.

"Yeah I'll order. No problem," he replied, picking up a crumpled Chinese menu off the desk.

And John noticed yet another change in himself at that moment. He was no longer following orders blindly because he was afraid of Sherlock. He was doing it because he wanted to. What was wrong with him?

Sherlock got rid of his coat and sat on his favorite armchair with a bit of a florish, taking his laptop and quickly tapping away, occasionally looking at John as he prepared to order, and as he ordered and once he was done, well, his eyes were glued to him by then.

"Are you okay, John?" he asked, licking his lips slowly, he couldn't help but wonder. "You just killed a man, after all," he muttered, and as much as that was supposedly his job, Sherlock couldn't get over the fact that John had just killed a man for him.
True, John was supposedly working for them, he had probably done this before, but in this case, he could have gotten rid of him very easily, he could have gotten Sherlock arrested, or killed for better measure, but instead he had saved him. Sherlock had never been saved before, he had always had to fend off for himself, and for a moment there was a spark of admiration in his eyes as he gazed at the undercover agent.

John finished ordering the food and got straight on with making Sherlock a cup of coffee. He hadn't even asked for one, but he thought he'd do it anyway. Why, he asked himself. Was he trying to impress him? He just seemed to get this satisfaction from doing things for Sherlock, even though it went against every rational thought in his head.

"I'm fine," he mumbled, shrugging his shoulders slightly and looking up at his boss. God those eyes were really something else, he mused. "He wasn't exactly a very nice man though so...not going to lose sleep over it."

"Are you OK?" He asked immediately. John placed Sherlock's coffee down on the cluttered table next to his armchair and sat down on a seat nearby, clearing off a big box of papers to do so.

"He wasn't a very nice man," he repeated, surprised by John's matter-of-fact attitude, it was probably expected by an ex-soldier and someone who was undercover in a criminal organization, but Sherlock had never met anyone like that, not anyone who wasn't cruel to begin with any way. And John was a good man, of that he was sure.

"I am fine," he said with a shrug, "Just surprised," he admitted, resting his head on his hand as he talked, his eyes still fixed on his employee. "You saved me, John," he commented, his lips curling in a soft smirk as John handed him his coffee. Oh, he noticed he hadn't needed to ask.
"Maybe I should do something in return?" he suggested, leaning forward.

John sat back in the comfy armchair with a sigh, glad to get off his feet again after an exhausting evening of running around. He picked up a newspaper off the floor and casually glanced through it.

He looked up as Sherlock began talking to him and rested the paper on the edge of the armchair. Nothing particularly interesting in there anyway. "It's nothing...really," John insisted with a shrug. "I mean...you can do something in return if you want but...don't feel you have to..."

Sherlock smiled to himself before he put his laptop aside, his feelings were still quite high from the happenings of the day and he really couldn't concentrate much on writing. Not to mention, now he had something else on his mind, something else he wanted to do. "You helped me catch a serial killer, John, it was... good," he muttered, slowly standing up and walking closer until he was standing in front of John's armchair.

He leaned over him, one of his hands on each armrest. "I am not used to doing things for others, you know, I am not even sure where to begin," he admitted, his eyes moving over John's body, starting at his face and moving down to his legs, his gaze was somehow hungry and he wasn't hiding it.

John's eyes followed Sherlock as he stood up from the chair and made his way over, gasping slightly as he hovered over him, getting quite close.

Sherlock's gaze was intense, his eyes piercing and penetrating. When they glanced over him it was like Sherlock could read his mind, see into his soul. No wonder he terrified people. It was probably impossible to keep any kind of secret from him.

Again, John began to wonder if Sherlock was coming on to him in some way, and he really didn't know what to think. His heart beat a little faster whenever his boss got closer, and surely the observant criminal had noticed John had a small crush on him.

"I um...don't quite know what to suggest," John admitted. "Whatever you think's best." He still wasn't sure what Sherlock's intentions were, although he was quite happy to play things out a little longer, see what happened.

The signs were all there, Sherlock's piercing eyes were not able to miss them, he knew John was not going to reject him, whatever he did, but somehow that wasn't exactly enough, especially when he wasn't sure what he wanted either.
He had hurt his employees before, he had used them before, and it had always been extremely pleasing, but Sherlock had never cared whether they would turn up for work the next day.
In this case.
Surprisingly.
He did.

"I don't know John," he whispered, his voice low, one hand moving around the other's throat, his thumb brushing dangerously over his jugular, his windpipe and then his fingers moved up to clamp more firmly on his shoulder. "I always end up doing just what I want... prizes are just so dull, anyway... unless they are for me..."

He leaned even closer, breeching John's personal space without a second of hesitation. "Are you scared, John?" he asked, smirking as he saw how nervous his employee was getting.
"You know you were my prize? I won you from my brother," he explained slowly, a bit too close to be simply narrating a story, he was deciding what to do.

John felt Sherlock's hand snaking around his throat and his pulse quickened. He'd heard about some of the things he'd done to employees in the past, just because he was bored or because they were stupid and annoyed him.

John gulped slightly, trying not to think about those things. Sherlock had been quite nice to him so far. They had a bond...didn't they? Maybe John had been misreading him completely.

Sherlock had a firm grip on his shoulder, those long bony fingers digging into the flesh. It hurt, but John tried not to show it. He was sure his racing heart would betray his nerves but he whispered, "I'm fine," unconvincingly.

"Prize?" He asked, surprised, and couldn't help get a little angry. Who or what did Sherlock think he was? He'd always stood up for himself and he wasn't going to take any shit just because of Sherlock's reputation. Well, not too much. "I'm not some kind of pet," John replied indignantly. "You don't own me."

Sherlock smirked as John flared up, he knew there were certain buttons he could push to rile the other up, he was, after all, quite famous for his temper, even though he had been so perfectly calm until now. Almost too calm.

"I chose you, John," he said, and his hands suddenly went to John's hair, grabbing his head and making him look at him. "You should feel bloody special," he added, and then he licked his lips, they were so close.

"You may very well be my pet, John, it should be an honour for you," he whispered, moving very slowly to straddle the other's laps, their bodies colliding and he sighed pleased as he sat on his crotch. "I would love to own you..."

John was quite annoyed with Sherlock's attitude, and was about to say something when the man suddenly grabbed his hair quite roughly, forcing his head round to look at him, and his eyes tingled with pain.

He'd been warned not to get too close, that Sherlock was unpredictable, crazy, that he didn't have friends. He tried note to get nervous, to think about what he might do. John could defend himself easily if something happened. Their faces were so close he could practically taste Sherlock's hot breath and he couldn't help noticing the criminal smelt pretty good.

John tried to look the other way when Sherlock mounted him. He was embarrassed and worried his body was beginning to show signs of attraction to him despite willing himself not to. He placed his hands either side of the armchair to avoid touching the criminal.

"Own...me?" he stammered, "what do you um...mean by that exactly?" He wasn't sure he really wanted to know the answer.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, icy eyes moving over John's face, he could tell what he was thinking and it pleased him. As expected, the man forgot about his anger, too busy trying to hide how he was affecting him on a physical level.
Sherlock wanted to see that, he wanted to feel, he wanted to feel John react to his body, to their proximity, to his words and his touch.

He massaged the other's scalp, slowly pushing him closer, their chests brushing together and his tongue coming out to lick his lips in expectation.
"I don't want to spoil the surprise," he teased him, loving the way he felt the other's warm skin under his fingertips. "But again... I am sure you have a few ideas..."

He pushed his hips down, sitting more comfortably on John's lap. "Am I making you uncomfortable, John? You saved my life after all, I shouldn't be too mean..." he breathed out, now so close to the other's lips. His heart was beating faster, he felt on edge, one small sign and he would lean in for a kiss.

A few seconds ago, John had been scared of Sherlock, thinking he might do something vicious, something violent, but now, with their current physical position, John had forgotten all about that in his effort to hold it together.

He's never felt attracted to a man before, but he couldn't deny that all night long he'd been fascinated by Sherlock, and his frequent flirting had made him rather self conscious, not because he didn't want it, but because more and more he was discovering he did want it, and that scared him.

He wasn't even sure he understood why. Perhaps it was the soft, pale skin; perhaps it was his unusual bone structure, his high cheek bones; perhaps it was his piercing eyes that always seemed to change colour; perhaps it was his dark fluffy curls that he kept wanting to run his fingers through; or perhaps it was his intelligence, his suave taste in clothes, the timbre of his voice, the way he smelt. Bloody hell, what was he thinking?

"I'm not uncomfortable," John lied. "I'm fine." His eyes darted over the other's face. They were so close he could hear Sherlock's heart beat, and he was sure the criminal would be able to hear his own heart beating madly, almost out of control. And those lips, looking so soft and warm, and so close to his.

John was turned on. He couldn't help himself. His breathing became disjointed and ragged, and he blushed as he felt a small twitching between his legs.

Sherlock wasn't thinking about plans any more, for once he was focusing on someone only, his mind was hazy, his senses filled with John's peculiar scent and all he could think about was to lean in and cease to suffer for this unexplicable attraction.

He did it.
He leaned closer, he pulled him near and he let their lips meet, he pushed himself even closer, he just wanted to be near, he just wanting to taste the man currently sitting under him.

As expected, John tasted differently, he kissed differently, and Sherlock started exploring him, his tongue sliding in between soft lips and fighting for control.

John was staring into Sherlock's intense eyes for what seemed like eternally, then quite suddenly, before he could think or say or do anything, their lips were together.

Soft, warm lips pushing up against each other and John wasn't sure how it had happened even. It was all just a blur. A haze.

John's senses came alive. The smell, the taste of Sherlock intoxicating him. The moist lips on his, the tongue impatiently pushing into his mouth, and John's body began relax, giving in.

The first to go was his hands. They let go of the armchair and found their way around Sherlock's waist, began to rub slowly up and down his back.

His eyes fluttered closed. He tilted his head to receive the kiss, parted his lips and allowed Sherlock to take control of him. His heart raced, endorphins pumping through him, and the twitching in his pants became a full on erection as a small moan escaped from the back of his throat.