Obsession

Really, he should have known it wouldn't be that simple. Things involving Sherlock rarely were, even small things like getting the paper became complicated just because Sherlock was involved. So trying something that was already complicated was just asking for trouble.

He was talking, of course, about the relationship. Not that most people would see it that way because most people didn't see at all but they shared a connection that defied Sherlock's usual platitudes about being married to his work.

Then it got complicated because John was in danger, had nearly been killed, and never mind that Sherlock risked his life all the time because he always knew he could outsmart them but John... Moriarty could not be predicted, not really, and there had been every chance that John would die, would be taken away from him and he Would Not Let That Happen. John was his, and he would never willingly let him go, especially not to the grasping claws of death.

What happened that night wasn't a gentle introduction to sex, nor a passionate joining. It was hard and brutal and possessiveness in its most basic and powerful form. Mine, it said, as Sherlock's cock slammed into John over and over again with little regard for pleasure and no consideration of comfort. Mine, mine, always mine, never letting go.

Things always got more complicated around Sherlock, and this time relationship meant obsession.