I have not edited this piece of shit yet. I really should do that, but I don't care. Wrote during class today. I'm feeling seriously lazy right now. Ugh. Let me know if there are glaring errors, please. Thank you!
Also, please let me know what you think, my friends! I always love to hear your opinions. Thanks, guys!
John jumped at the sound of his colleague's voice looming out of the dark. He flipped the light on. "Jesus, Sherlock, you frightened me half to death." The consulting detective had been sitting cross-legged in the dark for hours, lost in thought as usual. He was musing over a grueling case involving a serial rapist and murderer. After hours of contemplation in the black interior of 221b, Sherlock's eyes ached at the sudden introduction of light.
Sherlock now lifted his gaze to his friend. "How ordinary you are," he said. "You, good doctor, are completely hammered." He was indeed. John's cheeks were a brilliant shade, and he reeked of whiskey. "I could tell that you were even before you came up the stairs."
John snorted, stumbling forward on unsteady legs. "How?"
"You took thirty seconds longer than usual to get your key in the lock downstairs. The pattern of your footsteps was irregular, too..."
"Yes, yes, alright," John slurred, flopping into the armchair in front of his flat mate. The sleuth looked haggard but invigorated by his day's work. His fingertips were pressed together, poised before his face. Over his slender hands, Sherlock's eyes were visible. They held an intense excitement. The case was a thrilling one. He was high on its intrigue, and it was clear, even to John. "Yeah, so what if I am a bit sloshed, hm?"
"Whassit matter anyway? Y' don't need me here, y' never do when you're working, you just go off and do all... whatever it is y' do."
Sherlock's expression was unchanging. "Don't be ridiculous. It is of no import to me if you choose to dull your mental capacities with alcohol. but please," he implored, "do not make the mistake of thinking I do not need you, my friend."
John's eyes glowed. They were already shining from his intoxication, but now a lovely joy seemed to fill them that didn't really have much to do with his extreme intake of whiskey. "D' you mean that, Sherlock?" he asked with a hiccough.
He did not answer, but looked pointedly at the man now swaying a little in his seat. John understood. He always did, and Sherlock supposed that not even the numbing whiskey could hinder a bond like theirs. Surprise came over Sherlock then, as John suddenly slipped from his chair and onto the floor. His knees hit the floorboards loudly, and Sherlock flinched for his friend who would certainly be bruised there in the morning. He shook his head exasperatedly. He should never underestimate the inhibiting nature of alcohol, he reminded himself, taking note of how shameful John looked at the moment.
"Damn it, John," he hissed. He stood, and took John by the arm to lift him back into his chair. As soon as the shorter man had settled back into the cushion, however, he grabbed Sherlock's spindly upper arm. Sherlock tried to shake him off, but John had a tight grip. He would not relinquish. "Let go." Sherlock tried to soften his voice as though he was speaking to a very stupid child, but the result was more dangerous and warning, rather than sweet and coaxing as intended. John giggled at this.
"You are sexy when you order me around like that."
Sherlock froze. His breath caught, and his stomach turned. For what felt like the first time in his life, he was totally speechless. Nothing could have prepared him for that. He had never deduced any sexual attraction from John. Not really, anyway. Had he?
"No, really," John slurred. "You're damn sexy." Sherlock cleared his throat, dislodging his shock as much as possible.
"And you," he said coolly, "are completely trashed, John."
"That doesn't make me not right. More honest when drunk are a person."
The detective restrained from commenting on his friend's poor sentence structure. "You would never say anything like this if you were sober."
John made an ungodly disgruntled noise. "You don't know that. You think you know ev'rything, but you don't know everything. Y' never know... you never knew all this time how... fucking... sexy I think you are, all this time, y' never knew. See, y' don't know ev'rything. I know y' don't know everything because you don't know how you hurt people. Shut me out like you did t'day. Tell me to go. Tell me to go do something else because I was so un-useful, so here I am. I got smashed with Stamford and here I am."
Sherlock swallowed hard. He felt his own pulse quickening. He felt uncomfortable. He wished to fall back into his case now, but he could not leave John unsupervised as he was. To be honest, he could not leave John at all, for he was still trapped in his companion's clutch. "John," he said slowly. "Please let me go. Let me take you to bed."
"Why bed? I'm fine wherever you are, so let me stay here. I'm good where you are, because I like you. That's when I'm happy, so let me stay, don't tell me to go 'way again." John tugged, and Sherlock's knees buckled as the doctor dragged him down. He was forced to bend before John, bracing himself on the armrests of John's chair so he was not falling right on top of him. John was craning his neck up. He was dangerously close to Sherlock's faze.
"Gorgeous," John whispered, his eyes scanning Sherlock's face and lingering for a while on his mouth. He licked his lips.
This closeness was very unfamiliar to Sherlock, and it made his heart pound a little too hard. He could feel it banging on his ribs painfully, like a drum beat. He felt John's extraordinarily rapid pulse through his fingers which were digging into his arm. He watched John's pupils dilate dramatically before his very eyes. The man was seriously aroused by this close proximity. It was all so strange. Sherlock had never thought this possible. He had certainly never witnessed these symptoms in his flat mate in the past! Was it just the alcohol doing this to him, or was John just abnormally good at suppression when he was sober? Sherlock wasn't sure, but both seemed like sound hypotheses. If the latter was true, however, what did that mean for their relationship dynamic that worked so very well as it was? Perhaps it was better that this be merely a drunken indiscretion. Yes, Sherlock hoped wildly, as John gave him a piercing look. That was the much preferred outcome.
Those lips were just too close now. It was causing Sherlock's body to react in a way that surprised and frightened him. It had to stop. "No," he said, attempting to pry John's fingers from his bicep. "This is not..." John's tongue darted out and brushed Sherlock's upper lip so he shuddered. "...Not... what you really want," he finished weakly in a low whisper. The last time Sherlock's heart had pounded this way was the last time he'd had a good street chase. He was panting heavily, his hot breath ruffling John's short hair.
"Lemme decide what I want for myself, you arse."
Their mouths met each other.
Sherlock's world hushed in that singular moment.
John tasted strongly of whiskey, but he was so delicious. Sherlock was able to pick apart what was alcohol and what was purely John. It was amazing.
Everything was fantastically quiet. There was no murder anymore. Not here, not now; not when there was this glorious mouth to be explored, offering itself to his curiosity. It was so new, and so exciting. Sherlock felt, as his best mate kissed him deeply, a whole world opening up to him: a world of biological need which existed only within the realm of John's warmth, lips, tongue, and body. That was all that mattered.
When John's tongue invaded his mouth deeply, Sherlock felt a shocking pulse in his groin that made him withdraw suddenly out of surprise. His head spun, but John's head seemed to be spinning much more than his. His eyelids were drooping. His face was going slack. His grip on Sherlock's arm finally let up. "John?" Sherlock slapped his friend's cheek a little, trying to rouse him. "John." He slumped forward, unconscious.
With a sigh, Sherlock pushed him back so he sank into the plush armchair. The drunken army doctor was now snoring.
It took a few seconds before Sherlock realized that he was actually shaking. Every limb of his was trembling, in fact. His lips were wet, and tingling from the feeling John had left there with his. The flavor of Irish whiskey lingered in his mouth now-whiskey and John taste. His trousers felt tight. His face felt flushed.
He emitted a groan of frustration, and flung himself into his chair. He was brooding fiercely. Tonight had changed everything. Damn John. Sherlock felt disgusted with his own reactions. He was usually able to remain impassive, but this-John's amazing damn mouth-had broken a dam within him. A primal desire to satiate himself physically was raging in him now, pumping hot in his veins. It was terrifying, though he hated to admit that. It was a feeling Sherlock had certainly never experienced before, and he wasn't sure he liked it. He could not stand being unable to control his own thoughts and feelings. It brought him back to the state of mind he'd lived in the days before he started detective work. The furious tornado of un-channelled energy whirling inside him was a dangerous feeling. He'd hated himself back then. In those days, Sherlock had quieted his mad, unsatisfied genius with drugs of every kind. Now, he did so with puzzles. In this situation, however, he didn't think anything would satisfy this madness but John's body. John had unleashed this storm, and only he could assuage it; Sherlock felt sure of that. From his armchair, he watched his colleague sleep. The army doctor's mouth was slightly open, his breathing deep and regular. Sherlock had a crazy desire to shove his tongue between those parted lips, but he refrained with some difficulty. The unconscious man's cheeks were a darling pink color, and Sherlock couldn't help finding him strangely endearing to his heart.
Anxiety rose suddenly in his gut. His legs jittered. His fingers rapped on his knees. His eyes were twitching, his breathing was shaky, and his pulse was still abnormally high and irregular. "Damn it," he growled. He was furious with his friend for doing this to him now. He needed to work. He needed John to be conscious, to explain to him-Sherlock stopped suddenly. His heart dropped a little. What if John remembered none of this in the morning? He didn't know what he would do then. Would he pretend it never happened, or tell him? Sherlock wondered tensely what he really wanted, anyway. Did he want to progress their relationship into a physical one? A single throb in his groin answered that question for him, but he was not thinking straight right now, anyway. He shook his head. This was all very bad. He had cases to work on, but now his attention was divided. Long, painful minutes passed of this misery before Sherlock's mind finally began to ease up again, and he was able at last to sink back into the comforting mystery of his case.
At some point in the next half an hour, the thought occurred to him that he should probably move John to his bed. But then, he thought, the idea of touching John made his insides squirm again, and he did not want to expose himself to the horrible temptation of the scenario. So with a heavy heart, Sherlock decided against it, and left his friend to sleep-all night-upright in his armchair.
He was sure John would be sore in the morning, but he could only smirk. He thought of it as revenge for causing this stir.