Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, the BBC do. And I do not own the characters or general story, Arthur Conan Doyle does. The only thing I own is what I've written here and I don't profit from it in any way except the sheer enjoyment of writing it
Story: After a night out together at a restaurant, Sherlock gets very tipsy from wine, and makes a move on John. John reciprocates. Holmes/Watson. Rated M for sexual activity. Guy on guy, so if you don't like it, don't read it!
"I should have warned you about the wine thing," Sherlock slurred as John Watson helped him through the doorway, an arm around his waist. Secretly he would be disappointed once he had to let go.
"Oh dear, has he had a bit too much?"
"Yes, Mrs. Hudson." John nodded politely. Wasn't that obvious? She was a nice lady, but a bit too nosy for his liking.
"I can help him up the stairs, if you like."
"No, no, I've got it," John replied, forcing a smile, and tightening his hold on Sherlock, though it was too subtle for Mrs. Hudson to notice.
"Alright dear. I'll make him my special hangover cure in the morning, if you like."
John nodded automatically as he made his way awkwardly up the stairs with Sherlock. The man recovered himself a little once they'd reached the top.
"Oh, John," he smiled blithely, as if just remembering he was there.
"Yes, it's me, Sherlock. You've had a bit too much to drink."
"Yes, I tend to do that every once in a while," Sherlock replied with a lopsided grin, straightening up as they entered his room. "Coming into my room?"
"Come here," John said, and helped Sherlock to sit on the bed. For a moment, Sherlock's bleary eyes closed and John thought he was going to pass out, but they opened again and he surprised the man by placing his hands on Watson's hips and pulling him a fraction closer.
"What, have you got some deduction to make about my hips now?" John couldn't resist a wry smile. Obviously Sherlock craved a little more contact when he was drunk. Any minute now he would lie back and go to sleep.
"Not at all," Sherlock murmured, and he put his hands on John's shoulders, pulling him down to meet his lips in a kiss.
Shaking his head as he pulled back, Watson stammered "You're drunk."
"Accurate observation," Sherlock responded, before standing up and moving in for another kiss. Each one was slow, sensuous, his pale lips moving slowly over John's, tasting them, until John had to move back to take in some air. He was hard now. Sherlock must be able to feel it, standing so close to him.
In the tantalising silence hanging between them, Sherlock smirked. "Impressive, Watson," he breathed into his ear. "Let me take care of that for you."
"No, you don't – have to," John said, the words catching in his throat as Sherlock bent down onto his knees in front of him. Panic mixing with desire, he watched like a rabbit caught in the headlights as Sherlock's beautiful ivory hands moved to unzip his jeans, tugging them down a little, boxers too, easing his member out carefully.
John watched, mesmerised as Sherlock's eyes closed as he leaned in and took him in his mouth. Did it always take wine to release this sensual side of him, or had it always been there, and Sherlock kept it hidden?
'I'm going to have to get you drunk more often,' John thought, his own eyes closing, and his mouth opening of its own accord in a wordless gasp, as Sherlock slid his mouth along the underside of his cock. As Sherlock continued to suck and lick, John's hand fixed itself at the back of his neck, initially to steady himself, but as he felt the smooth flawless skin, he couldn't help but imagine the androgynous man naked, and clumsily he went to undo Sherlock's shirt buttons, pushing the shirt off the man as soon as he possibly could.
"Come here," Sherlock urged softly, and they staggered back onto the bed together, not able to remove the rest of their clothes fast enough, until finally they were naked, and drunk though he may have been, Sherlock had a wide grin on their face, increased by the gasps that came from John as their bodies met in cool touches.
A hand on John's back, Sherlock pulled his partner to him, whispering in his ear, "I always finish what I start," as his hand went back down to where his mouth had been only minutes earlier.
The two then completely lost themselves in desire, Sherlock fiercely attacking John's shoulder and upper chest with kisses as he brought him to the peak of pleasure.
"That's it now...John," he breathed, spurring him on as the man began to cry out from sensation and involuntarily arch into the thrusting motions of Sherlock's hand.
John bit his lip but couldn't suppress a long, low moan as he came, his whole body quivering into Sherlock's. His breathing slowly calmed, but he was aware that Sherlock's hadn't, as he came back to himself.
"Your turn now, right?" he murmured, unable to miss how aroused Sherlock was – it was all over his face. Feeling relaxed from his own release, John's hand slid down to pump Sherlock's hard on for him. He dazedly marvelled at how pale and flawless it was, just like the rest of Sherlock's body, as the other man's face contorted with pleasure, and he cried out for more.
John took the opportunity to really take in Sherlock's naked beauty – the man was slim, but lithe. His skin was pale, but rather than implying delicateness or fragility, it reminded John of an angel almost. A marble beauty. Combined with his androgynous features and it was no wonder he was captivated by the man, just like everyone else he knew was in some way.
Knowing he had to make the most of this time, John cupped Sherlock's cheek with his other hand, his thumb gently brushing just beneath Sherlock's eye. He leaned in to press his lips to Sherlock's bare, twitching neck, delighting in the shudders the man emitted with each kiss John gave, until the man finally jerked with orgasm, panting unsteadily into John's ear and making a small sound.
Sherlock's eyes drifted closed and John realised he was asleep at last. He managed to find some tissue to clean himself, and Sherlock up, before dressing quietly, and remembering that he had left his mobile phone downstairs.
Watson had just picked up the phone, and jumped nearly a foot in the air. He turned, and let out a breath. Mrs. Hudson.
"Is Sherlock alright?"
John smiled at her concern. "Yes he's fine." His smile widened, as he added. "Fit as a fiddle."
"Oh that's good." The woman smiled obliviously, but then it faded.
"Um, do you know that your fly is undone dear?"