The two of them trudged up the stairs to 221B, opened the door to their flat and collapsed gratefully into their respective chairs. Sherlock leaned his head back and released a long, drawn-out breath. An amazing and intricate three-day case had them running from one side of town to another, and frequently wracking their brains for solutions to clues which had no logical connection.
John's eyes surveyed his flatmate, "Sherlock?"
Still not raising his head, Sherlock replied with an inquisitive grunt.
"How long has it been since you've slept?"
"Three days, sixteen hours."
"Sherlock..." the warning tone in John's voice was cut off by Sherlock's butting in.
"Don't fuss. The post-case euphoria on this one has nearly worn off. I expect to be in bed and asleep within minutes."
"Can wait until I'm awake, then you can feed me to your heart's content."
"Promise?" John's hopeful disbelief could be heard in his words.
Sherlock lifted his head, smiled wearily. "Yes. Meanwhile, you slept eight hours ago, surely you're not turning in already?"
"No, thought down to the pub for a pint might relax me, then some crap telly, then bed, where I'll dream of feeding you like Mycroft."
Sherlock sneered, but there was a hint of amusement behind it. "Let's not bring up Mycroft before bed, I'd hate to have to dream about him; we always argue."
"So? You argue all the time anyway."
"Yes, but in these the arguments make no sense and he frequently ends up winning."
John smiled, huffed and pulled himself out of his armchair, extending a hand to help pull Sherlock out of his.
"Well then, I'm off, be back in an hour or two, I expect."
Sherlock raised a hand in farewell as he trod off toward his bedroom.
John sat down at the bar, vaguely noticing the two eye-catching collegiates sitting in the booth by the door.
"You a'right mate?" inquired one, a leggy blonde with a mischievous smile.
John perked up as he spun on his stool. "Fine, just a long day actually. Was going to have a pint, but I've got a bit of a headache coming on, I think."
"Aw, that's rotten. Come on, come sit over by us. I think I've got a pain killer in here somewhere," said her mate, fishing through her purse. Whispers and smiles were exchanged quickly between the two girls as she continued to rifle in her bag.
Two nice college girls inviting him for a sit with them; the night wasn't turning out half-bad, headache included. John ordered a glass of water rather than risking making the oncoming headache worse, and trotted over to where the girls sat, who scrunched over making room for him.
"Long day, eh? I know how that goes. Sometimes you get one of those, you just have to do something that makes you feel good. Oh by the way, I'm Lily, this is Jenna," the blonde introduced, "whatcha do then, for work, I mean?"
John introduced himself and explained it wasn't work so much as a crazy flatmate that kept him occupied. This garnered some laughs, and John was starting to feel pretty good about himself. Jenna proffered up the pain killer, a plain white pill, scored neatly across the middle; John looked at it briefly, not recognizing the brand, but downed it anyway. Anything to ward off the headache.
They sat and chatted companionably for about forty minutes before John noticed their hands gravitating toward his, or maybe it was his gravitating toward theirs; at any rate, all six hands ended up about the middle of the table where they all noticed, had a brief chuckle and a game of hands was started. The girls were quicker than John and frequently cheated to get their hands on top of the pile, which resulted in the game quickly devolving into friendly chaos.
More conversation and time passed before Lily piped up, "So John, feel like quitting here? Come on out with Jenna and me? Bit of a walk, maybe?"
John checked his watch and sighed, "As wonderful as that might be, I've got to get home and check on my flatmate. He hasn't slept in three days."
They looked at him doubtfully, but Jenna said, "Ok, you go check. If there's no dire emergency, then come on back, we'll be here for a while."
John grinned at her and nodded decisively. They were both very cute, nice, and their youth was rubbing off on him - he felt about 10 years younger after passing the time with them. He finished off his water, waved happily and walked out of the bar.
The summer night air was warm and fresh. He inhaled, drawing it deeply into his lungs. It smelled wonderful. One wouldn't think London would smell wonderful, but tonight it certainly did. He inhaled again, just to feel it.
The mild breeze that blew up against his cheek felt as soft as caress. He couldn't help the smile spreading across his face. It was beautiful. He felt good. All nights should feel like this. He briefly extended his arms to both sides and spun in circles slowly four or five times, simply enjoying breathing, as he walked toward home. Everything was perfect. He might even have to wake Sherlock to show him such a perfect night. Not that he'd appreciate it, but really, who couldn't enjoy a night like this? This was sure to soothe even Sherlock's slightly snarky soul.
He walked the few remaining blocks home, a spring in his step. At the front door he laid a hand on the knob, then stopped, noticing how refreshingly cool it was, and what a lovely patina it had acquired over time. He wasn't sure how long he'd been studying it when he shook himself out of his reverie, opened the door and bounced inside and up the stairs.
"Sherlock?" he cried out as he came in the front door, closing it behind him, "You still up? You need to see this!" He walked through the darkened flat to Sherlock's door, opened it and found Sherlock flopped sideways across his bed, still dressed. Yup, he had been tired, certainly hadn't been joking about being asleep within minutes.
John shook his head over the antics of his wonderfully extraordinary flatmate, and moved forward to extract him from his shoes, socks, trousers and shirt. Sherlock really did invest in the best when it came to clothing. All of it felt incredibly finely textured, the shirt most of all. It must have cost a small fortune. He laid them carefully across the foot of the bed, pulled down the covers, and obviously clothing wasn't his only vice. The sheets felt fantastic! He started to maneuver Sherlock beneath the covers, when he stopped, sucking in a shocked lungful of air, before dropping his gaze down to where he held on to Sherlock's torso.
He dropped his hands away, still in mild shock, but he couldn't stop staring. Forget the clothes and the sheets! One had to feel Sherlock to believe it. His skin was so incredibly smooth! And soft! And warm! 'Smooth as a baby's bottom' didn't even begin to address the issue here.
He slowly let his hands descend to Sherlock's chest once more - just to be sure he had felt that right. Oh yes! It was incredible! How could he have bandaged this man up so many times and not noticed this? He couldn't help running his hands over and over Sherlock's chest and sides. Oooh! The neck was fabulous too!
Attention drawn to the neck couldn't help but include a glance at the lips. Not gay, John told himself, but suddenly kissing those lips seemed like a wonderful idea. If the rest of him felt anything like this... John stopped thinking and sank down into the most amazing, albeit one-sided, kiss he'd ever experienced. The lips were soft and yielding, warm and tender. It was completely possible he could kiss them all night long. He broke the kiss to come up for air, and briefly rubbed his cheek against Sherlock's, the stubble felt strange and... kinda fun. He rubbed again drinking it in. Was this what Sherlock felt like when he catalogued things in his head? Inhaling again, he wondered how in the world Sherlock smelled so good? Yes, expensive shampoo and soap, but there was the scent of just Sherlock under there too. It seemed like something that, if you could bottle, you'd only find in a specialty shop. Eu de Sherlock, well, Eau de washed Sherlock. Not Eau de ripe Sherlock. He grinned widely to himself.
The lips were soft, the chest was soft and smooth... the belly! Must try the belly! John quickly shed his own shirt in a move he thought was possibly the most brilliant of his career, and slid slowly down over Sherlock's torso, nearly overcome by the sheer input of sensation. Seriously, he thought to no one in particular, NO ONE should have skin like this! ... Strike that, EVERYONE should have skin like this! It should be a law. He briefly fought off the urge to wake Sherlock just so he could feel how amazing he felt for himself. He briefly licked Sherlock's chest on the way down and thought: I could die like this.
He got to the belly. He most definitely wanted to blow a raspberry on it, as Sherlock would never let him do it if he were awake. John was suddenly very grateful that Sherlock slept so deeply after a case, well it had been three days and then some, after all.
Sherlock's stomach was unbelievable as well, just as smooth and soft, just as silky as the rest of him. He nuzzled it, rubbing his nose and forehead over it, sliding his hand up and around Sherlock's sides as well. Good thing he wasn't ticklish.
As he rubbed and massaged his hands and face over Sherlock, he gradually became aware of a growing hardness beneath his chest. He stopped and gulped. Sherlock might not be awake, but his body was apparently enjoying the contact. A thought struck him that he wasn't sure what to do with. If the rest of Sherlock was this soft and silky and amazing to touch, there was one place that was bound to be even more silky... Not gay, not gay, he thought. But this was just experiencing things. Incredible things. Really, how could Sherlock not have told him he felt so good? 'John, touch me, I feel like a basket of kittens'. REALLY, Sherlock, some things you should share.
He tentatively pulled Sherlock's pants down, not really sure if he should do what he was thinking. Just a quick touch maybe, to confirm his suspicions. Just like a check-up. Keep it clinical. His hand snaked down, felt along the fuzzy sac, also incredibly soft and tickly to the touch, moved up, tentatively checking... drawing his fingers slowly up and over the stiffened member, down the backside of it. John's brain nearly exploded. Christ almighty! He'd been right, oh my god, he'd been so right. There were no words to describe the sensation his fingers were transmitting back to his brain.
NOTHING in the world could feel so good! Absolutely NOTHING! The skin's so soft, it's silkier than anyone could possibly imagine, and... it's getting harder, and oh god, that's even better. John's mouth began to water inadvertently. What would it taste like? Smells good. Smells like Sherlock. Sooo not gay, but who could refuse trying to touch this wonderful thing in any possible way they could? Just an experiment. Sherlock understood experiments.
John knows he's already crossed so many boundaries tonight, he's stopped worrying about crossing a few more. His hands run back over Sherlock's chest and sides again, still unbelieving of the simply incredible sensations Sherlock's skin produces, as he slowly takes his cock in his mouth. John's brain stops functioning. He stops breathing for a moment. This is heaven. Found heaven. Who knew it was Sherlock? Strange place to put heaven, but no one would think to look there, would they, maybe it's why Sherlock is so standoffish. People can't discover heaven by mistake. No no no no no.
His concentration is totally focused on Sherlock's prick and the sensations it causes in his mouth. The warmth, the hardness, the frankly unbelievable texture he could lick all night, what it feels like when his cheeks hollow and he sucks on it... It's no longer a prick, it's a miracle.
Sherlock is slowly coming to, his dreams extremely pleasant, he doesn't want to wake, but something's on him. He shakes his head trying to chase the grogginess from it, then realizes with a jolt that someone is sucking on him... Scratch that, JOHN is sucking on him, running his hands over him and making completely unmentionable noises of sheer delight, startling him to complete awareness in nanoseconds.
Swallowing hard, Sherlock gasps, speaking as steadily as he can, "John? John!... what the... hell? Are you doing?" Sherlock sits up, dragging John off of his privates, looking both wary and confused.
John smiles widely at Sherlock, all pretense of embarrassment gone. "Oh good, Sherlock, you're up! I think I got drugged, but Oh My God, you should feel this! Have you ever felt yourself Sherlock?"
Sherlock's brow creases as he pulls John up, away from his cock and looks at him. John's pupils are blown. Sherlock replies warily, "I should think so, John. It is my body after all," his eyes still locked on the doctor.
"Yes, but have you ever really felt it? Here!" John grabs Sherlock's hand and rubs it over Sherlock's other arm, looking at him, waiting for that a-ha moment that doesn't come.
Sherlock continues looking at John evaluatingly, curious. "Tell me John, does everything feel really good right now?"
"I just never took the time to realize it, Sherlock. Life is amazing. Even the air! Sherlock, take a deep breath! Isn't that incredible? Here, feel your lips!" Not waiting for Sherlock to raise his hand to his lips, John smashes his own lips onto them, tackling Sherlock back onto the bed and snogging him thoroughly.
Sherlock, with a little bit of trouble, manages to push him off again, looking a little bit dazed.
"John, how long were you down at the pub and how much have you had to drink?
"Not long, maybe an hour, bit more perhaps. Met these lovely girls, they were amazing! Haven't drunk anything but water, had a headache coming on."
"And how long have you felt the world is made of wonderful?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him.
"Don't know, first noticed it coming back here, but why the hell does it matter when..." John tackles Sherlock again.
Sherlock's not entirely sure how to handle this. He's actually, though reluctantly, enjoying all the hands-on attention and bites his bottom lip to try to focus, pushing John off of him once more, as John seems to think the biting-the-bottom-lip-idea is genius.
"John, John! As sorry as I am to say this, I believe your lovely gal pals slipped you some Ecstasy."
"Hardly matters, Sherlock, they were angels, quite wonderful and, well, my headache is gone." John still can't stop his fingers from roaming over Sherlock, and Sherlock is nearly convinced John's grown at least two more hands as he tries to wrangle them.
"Sherlock, they were funny too and we were getting along great, but I had to come check on you. Damn it Sherlock, I should have invited them back here to feel you! But then, I didn't realize you felt so good. I should call the bar, see if they're still there and invite them over!"
Sherlock can't imagine trying to hold three of these octopi off. Holding tightly onto John's wrist, he manages to keep him from fulfilling that promise. "No John, why don't you just stay here with me. I think you need someone to keep an eye on you."
"Okay, but your chest Sherlock, feel your chest and, Oh God, your cock! Feel your cock! Have you ever felt anything so good in your life? Why didn't you tell me? How could you keep this a secret for so long? Christ Sherlock, how do you ever STOP touching yourself? Why would you want to? To hell with the work, just charge people to come and feel you - maybe they could bring food or something. There would be a line around the block!" John thinks seriously for a moment. "Course that might be a bit germy, but then OH! Sherlock! The SHOWER! Holy hell, if you think you feel good now, can you imagine what you'd feel like IN WARM WATER?"
John tugs Sherlock out of bed and toward the bathroom, desperate to get him into the shower.
Meanwhile, Sherlock's trying simply to keep an eye on his friend and keep him from doing something even crazier than trying to feel him all over. John turns on the water and strips off quickly, while Sherlock is hoping the water might sober John up slightly.
John pushes Sherlock into the shower, gasps and quivers as he feels the warm water, then feels it running over Sherlock's skin. John gushes about this nonsensically to Sherlock, then starts licking and kissing all over him, running hands over his chest, eventually dropping down before Sherlock figures out what's happening, and has to catch John under the arms and haul him back upright before he manages to latch onto him again.
"John, I hate to remind you that you're not gay."
"Sherlock, if this is what gay feels like, oh my yes, I am gay, I am sooo gay. In fact, I'm so beyond gay that I've created a whole new kind of gay."
Seeing the shower isn't doing much to sober John up, Sherlock manages to convince John to try feeling the towels. The suggestion works, and as John waxes poetic over terrycloth, Sherlock manages to get himself and John patted mostly dry, before steering them both back to the bedroom and lying John back down on the bed, completely unsure of what to do next. He's got to keep an eye on him, as no one knows how pure the stuff that he was given was or even the exact dosage. His doctor's going to be a handful for a while.
Sherlock pulls his pants back on before flopping into bed next to John, trying to keep him focused on his face, rather than places further south, which seem to be singing a siren's song to John.
"John," he says, hauling him back up and level with his face once more. "You're obviously enjoying your sense of touch. Here, feel this." Sherlock puts John's hand in his hair, and suddenly all John's attention is riveted there. He strokes through it mouth agape.
"It's like...like...a bunny! Or no! A chinchilla!" John's hands keep stroking through his hair. Sherlock merely lies beside him as John's absorbed with his hair for half-an-hour. The stroking actually does feel good. Pity John really isn't in his right mind at the moment.
Not long after the half hour has passed, John's hands are working themselves back down over his chest. Sherlock stops him again as he begins to move in to kiss and lick at it.
"John, as much as I might enjoy this in other circumstances, you, as far as I've ever been able to tell, really aren't gay, and I think that determining that you are is best left for times when you are truly sober."
"Can I just stroke you? You're so soft..." John's voice sounds a little hurt.
"I suppose that won't do much damage..." then, swatting his hands away, "NO! Not down there! I know you think it's the world's best thing at the moment, and I'm flattered, really, but chest only. I can only imagine you in the morning, if you remember any of this, which I assume is about a 50/50 chance, having one hell of an identity crisis if I let you continue with what you seemingly want to do. I can't be party to that."
"Yes, hair's fine."
John's fingers study the shape and textures of Sherlock's face and he rubs against the stubble once more declaring it to be 'neat', and grinning like a madman.
Sherlock hesitates. Lips would be better than all the other parts John currently wants to kiss. "Maybe."
"Can I give you a massage, Sherlock?"
"Think it might be a bit safer if I were to give you one. Why don't you flip over, John?"
"Oh, I think that might be fantastic! Sherlock, you're a genius!"
Sherlock looks flummoxed for a moment, replying, "Well, yes, but I hardly think massages figure into that."
John flips onto his stomach already practically purring. Sherlock straddles his back, and John wiggles his bum up against him playfully.
"John, none of that. Behave!" Sherlock's tone is stern, and not playful at all. He is not being fun. John pouts.
Then Sherlock begins the backrub and all thoughts flee from John's mind. The massage is heavenly. Massages normally are, but this one is from Sherlock, who feels fantastic anyway, and Sherlock knows where all the muscles are, and how much pressure to apply. John is nearly drooling. He certainly is moaning. By the end of it, Sherlock's covered all the muscle groups in his back, smoothed out every knot, and gotten John as close to sleep as possible, considering he'd taken a stimulant. John's breaths are slow and steady, eyes a bit dreamy, as Sherlock slides off his back and down under the covers again.
"That was mmmm," he mumbles at Sherlock, then snuggles up to him.
Sherlock smiles, shaking his head and throws his arm over John.
"Sure we can't?" John moves his hips in towards Sherlock's, brushing bits together. "You have no idea how good you feel down there."
Sherlock scoots backward a bit, "John, we've gone over this," his voice low and controlled.
John's lips brush against Sherlock's and after all the no's he's doled out tonight, perhaps kissing isn't the worst that could happen. It would certainly take John's mind off of other things, he hopes, because while he knows he can continue to fend him off indefinitely if necessary, it's getting more difficult to do so.
Sherlock takes the invitation and pulls John in for a deep kiss, definitely distracting the doctor, and marking the start of a slow but marathon snog-fest, where John is deeply interested in every sensation he can pull out of it, as well as inhaling the Eau de Sherlock, and snickering every time he thinks of it, before plunging back in for more. He even gets away with a few nibbles on Sherlock's cheek, ears and earlobes before Sherlock puts a stop to it as he heads toward his neck, preventatively stuffing a pillow between their hips as John's privates seem to have a will of their own regarding his.
Sherlock's had quite a night, getting only a few hours sleep then taking care of and fending off his drugged flatmate who will likely have an identity crisis in the morning. After a few hours of kissing, as the light starts to filter in the windows, they both fall asleep, clinging to one another.
They both sleep long and hard, Sherlock turning onto his back and John curling up toward the door, cuddling a pillow to his chest.
John wakes first with only glimpses of memory from the night before. Briefly remembering touching Sherlock's chest, a backrub, and lots of no's from Sherlock, for which he thinks he should be grateful. He's pretty sure there was some kissing, and he's positive he wasn't quite himself, though he felt the happiest he's ever been in his life. Actually, he's still pretty chuffed. There was some thought about perfumes, maybe? He doesn't really want to think about why he and Sherlock are both naked and in the same bed, but does remember trying to tuck Sherlock in, which might explain part of it anyway. Was there a shower?
He shakes his head and thinks whatever doesn't come back to him, Sherlock will surely explain. He trusts no one like he does Sherlock, so there's got to be something he can tell him which makes sense. In the meantime, he sees Sherlock sleeping like the dead, and knows those answers may be a long time coming since his flatmate has a lot of sleeping to catch up on, and he's fairly certain he didn't get any last night.
Putting all questions on the back-burner for the time being, he rises, gets dressed, makes some breakfast that he really doesn't feel hungry for, and settles down with the bills and some crap telly.
Sherlock sleeps all day.
Partway through the next day, Sherlock finally rises from his lack-of-sleep coma, throws on his dressing gown and walks as gracefully as he can, considering he's still half-asleep, out to the sitting room, where John is sitting in front of the couch, tears streaming down his cheeks.
"John?" he inquires, wondering how much of this is the identity crisis and how much might be from other sources.
"Sh'lock," hiccups John, tears still endlessly making their journey from his eyes to his chin, then onto his favorite jumper.
"You're crying," he observes.
"Don't know exactly. Just feel...bad. Awful, actually. No reason, just awful."
"No. More like a sort of depressed, but not exactly. Kind of lonely that won't go away. It doesn't make sense."
Sherlock's eyes brighten as suddenly it does click into place. He commandeers John's computer, not that John cares at the moment, and looks up the effects of Ecstasy, then does research on aftercare. Jotting down a quick list, he searches the apartment and gathers the necessary items: largely vitamins and supplements.
"If I'd thought a bit more clearly when you first got home, I should have given these to you then. Here," he hands John a handful of them, then fetches some water and watches John down them unquestioningly, "these will help allay that, but probably not much by now. You're most likely in for a rough day. I'll stay in with you."
"Sherlock, what happened? I can't remember much. I did feel really good though and the air was great. I remember spinning down the street."
"Bits and pieces. Tucking you into bed. I think I kissed you, why would I kiss you? Did we shower? Something about kittens?"
"You sure you want to know everything John? You might be embarrassed." He paused. "I can tell you - it's not a problem for me, and you were mostly out of it, so there's really nothing to be embarrassed about, but are you sure you want to know? I really don't want to deal with awkwardness."
John nodded. Sherlock sat down beside him, back against the couch.
"I'm not sure what happened before I woke up but…"
Suddenly John flushed from head to toe, a memory surfacing. He gulped. "Uh. Sherlock? Did…did I? Um…" his eyes fluttered to Sherlock's lap, then back up to stare straight ahead at the far wall. He looked scandalized.
Sherlock spoke, but with a trace of humour in his voice, "That's what woke me up. Don't be silly, John," he said as he felt his friend shrink away, "you were hardly in a fit state, and I pulled you off before you did too much." Sherlock seemed to think that that made the fact John had been fellating him a mere trifle.
"You seemed to be very fascinated with your sense of touch. The drug will do that. You thought I was amazing to feel, and were given to pouncing, so I let you run your hands over me – just the chest John, don't worry, though you were very interested in lower areas, which I prohibited. And yes, there was a shower, and no, nothing happened. In fact, once I pointed them out, the towels became your world for a good five minutes."
John dropped his face into his hands, still quite rosy, "God, why didn't you just leave? Or kick me out?"
Sherlock looked affronted. "Someone had to take care of you, John." Why would John think I wouldn't take care of him? "I had no idea how much you'd been given."
John sighed, head still in his hands and nodded.
At least that was settled then. Sherlock continued, "I got you back in bed, let you play with my hair, which, yes, is rather soft normally, so probably did feel quite good. You propositioned me a few more times and to get your mind off of that goal, I kissed you. We did that for a little while, then fell asleep. You know the rest."
"Christ, I feel like shit."
"That's the Ecstasy – it releases the body's serotonin all at once, which is what produces the high, but unfortunately, a day or two later, you have no more reserves. Your body has to build it up again…"
"That's not exactly what I was talking about, but thanks anyway. I mean, what the hell, Sherlock? It's not like me to get off my head and come molest my flatmate. I'm so sorry. I mean, I'm not even gay - not that that would be an excuse…" John broke off.
"It's just that last night you said you were so gay that you'd invented a whole new kind." Sherlock grinned again. "Don't worry, John, I'm not taking anything you said under the influence seriously. It's also why I didn't let you do a lot of the things you apparently wanted to. The Ecstasy lowers inhibitions quite a bit more than alcohol, and even though you were more than willing at the time, I knew today would come and you'd freak out. Hence, I played damage control." There was a brief pause. "Are you going to have a crisis now? If yes, I'd rather be prepared."
John shook his head but still looked appalled with himself. "You aren't completely disgusted? It sounds as if I mauled you. I certainly didn't behave well."
"Why would I be disgusted, John?" Sherlock sounded genuinely confused. "You're my friend. I like you. And apart from having to wrangle you, parts of it were quite nice."
John pulled his head from his hands, tilting his head up to look at Sherlock, shocked.
"You kiss quite well." He stated matter-of-factly. "Now stop worrying and come here," he said, looping his arm around John's shoulders. "What would you like to see on telly?"
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