These characters do not belong to me, but I promise they're not doing anything they won't thoroughly enjoy ;)
Fair warning: drunk sex, some not drunk sex, and my oh my—when did this story get angsty? I didn't mean to. It just happened. I'll make it up to you, I promise.
John was almost three hours late returning home from the surgery. He was trying to hail a cab instead of catching the tube to shave a little time off his return trip. But it seemed every cab in London was already occupied.
It's not like any of it was his fault. There'd been a massive car accident. Every available doctor was called in to help with the chaos. He'd meant to text Sherlock. He really had. Just—everything had been so hectic. He'd barely had time to breathe, let alone shoot of a text to his flat mate and let him know he wouldn't be home at the usual time.
His heart sank as he finally climbed into the cab and looked down at his mobile. Seven new text messages.
Is the tube a bit slower than usual this evening? - SH
Did you have other plans that you forgot to tell me about? - SH
I know we didn't officially say we'd both be in tonight, but I assumed. It is a Wednesday, after all - SH
Perhaps one of your awful co-workers offered to take you out for a drink and you couldn't say no? Do try to hurry things along - SH
I got us a bottle of wine. I'm opening it - SH
I'm drunk - SH
The wine is gone - SH
Sherlock was bound to be in an exceedingly foul mood. Either that, or he would have already wrecked himself, smoked a few cigarettes, wanked, and fallen asleep. John felt incredibly guilty. Despite Sherlock's hatred of formalities, they'd both fallen into a comfortable routine of shagging like rabbits. Almost every other night sometimes. It had been going on for about three months.
The cab got stuck in traffic. By the time they finally got to Baker Street, John was sure nothing pleasant would be waiting for him inside the flat. A drunk, horny Sherlock was always fun. But a drunk, sexually frustrated, and angry Sherlock—well that was a recipe for getting anthologies about European serial killers thrown at you from across the room.
John walked up the stairs slowly as he dared and opened the door of his flat carefully. No sign of Sherlock, though there was an empty bottle of wine on the coffee table. Two glasses set out, only one used.
Then he heard mattress springs creaking. He dared to step inside and close the door behind him. The door to Sherlock's room was open, and the bed was unoccupied. He frowned and began to climb the stairs up towards his own bedroom.
The sound got progressively louder. He could hear Sherlock panting. He pushed the door open.
Sherlock was naked, and sprawled across John's duvet. Cheeks flushed, dark curly hair sticking up at all sorts of interesting angles, with a huge dildo buried deep inside him. He was fucking himself on it. But the second he saw John, he pulled the toy out and threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a slick thump.
Before he could register what was happening, Sherlock was on his feet, and John was being dragged towards the mattress. Thrown down on it.
Sherlock loosed John's belt buckle and pulled it off roughly. John struggled a bit when Sherlock undid the button and zip of his trousers and yanked them down around his ankles along with his pants. But John went abruptly still the second Sherlock's lips wrapped around the tip of his cock. That wonderful, clever tongue was swirling around him, massaging the sensitive underside of his glans. Sherlock pulled off for a moment to glare up at him.
"Was your mobile dead?"
John tried to reply but the words died on his lips when Sherlock dove down onto his cock, and the tip of it hit the back of that wonderful, long throat. Sherlock swallowed around him. His muscles contracting beautifully. John groaned, and tangled his fingers in Sherlock's hair.
Sherlock pulled off to breathe, with a rather crazed look in his eyes. He pulled off John's shoes and finished removing all the clothes from the lower half of his body. Then he yanked open the drawer on the nightstand and grabbed the bottle of lube.
John took the initiative to shift so he was lying lengthwise on the bed, instead of sprawled awkwardly across it. Sherlock kneeled at the edge of the mattress before crawling towards John. Swinging a leg over his torso so he was straddling him. The detective poured lube into his hand and began to slick up John's erection.
"I've already come three times," Sherlock moaned breathily as he sank down onto John's cock. "Twice with a vibrator, once just with my fingers."
"Jesus," John groaned.
"Not all of us have the refractory period of a seventy year old man."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Fifty minutes is the least amount of time you've ever taken to get it up again, John. I've kept track. That's why it's unacceptable that you're this late."
Sherlock began to move. The world stopped, and slid sideways at a bizarre sort of half time. John was burning up. Lurching with a tingling pleasure that was almost entirely too much to handle.
"You're so useless. Sometimes I don't even know why I bother with you. Would it really have killed you to send a text?" Sherlock grunted. It struck John that he'd pretty much just replaced the sex toy, for all his participation in the current activity. But when Sherlock was on top of him, he would get violent if John tried to set the pace himself.
He'd been slapped across the face mid-coitus enough times to learn his lesson, thank you.
"God, I'm sorry," John panted. Fingers wrapped around Sherlock's sharp hipbones. It wasn't fair. He felt so fucking perfect—slick, warm, and velvety. It was like he was made for this. For John specifically. They fit together so beautifully. It was utterly sinful.
"I could have called someone else, you know," Sherlock growled. "If I'd known you were going to take such a long fucking time."
"Trying to make me jealous?" John smirked.
"Would you really bring some other bloke home and shag him in our flat?" The combination of worry and sheer arousal probably should have been disturbing, but it really wasn't.
"Does that thought actually turn you on?" Sherlock snorted.
"Only if I get to watch."
"You're a pig. Where were you, anyway?" Sherlock was shifting, seemingly trying to find the correct angle. He dipped down and bite John's neck before he resumed his experimentation.
"There was a big car wreck… shit that's lovely… they wouldn't let me leave the surgery."
Sherlock leaned forward a bit, splaying his hands out across John's chest. He hadn't bothered to remove John's jumper. Was that the reason it felt so insanely hot in his bedroom?
John loved it when Sherlock rode him. He could be content to stay like this forever. Staring at the beautifully insane man above him. Watching him come apart. Bite his lips. Let out small, animalistic grunts. Sweat. Become human.
He felt the taller man's body jolt. Sherlock let out a tiny whine and began fucking himself on John's cock quite intensely. Must have found the spot he liked.
"You feel so fucking good," Sherlock's breath hitched. "I've been aching to have your fat cock inside me. None of my toys are big enough. They don't stretch me like you do."
John knew for a fact that Sherlock had toys that were almost comically large, and he was just saying that, because when he got to a certain point of pre-orgasmic madness, he said a lot of dirty things for the sake of it. But damn it all to hell if Sherlock's filthy mouth wasn't the sexiest thing on the planet.
"Thought I was useless," John snorted.
Sherlock slapped him right across the face.
"You deserved that. Did you like coming home to see me pleasuring myself on your bed?" Sherlock purred. It was rather an abrupt transition. But John didn't really mind.
"Yes. I love it when you act like a horny little slut. When you just can't stand not to have a cock slamming into you."
"Fuck, John, I need it so badly. It feels so good," Sherlock was practically singing.
"That's right. Take it all. Ride me like the filthy whore you are."
Sherlock's eyes were closed. He was moving even faster. Driving John's cock all the way inside him. He could feel the hints of muscles starting to constrict. Flutter.
"Oh shit, oh fucking hell—" Sherlock moaned frantically. He was almost sobbing. John wanted to reach out and touch the lovely cock that was bobbing in front of him, slapping against Sherlock's taught abdomen. But he wasn't allowed. Every time he tried, Sherlock pushed his hand away.
He didn't exactly understand why. But Sherlock was a man with very particular sexual habits, and John quickly found the futility in really questioning them.
"John, oh fuck—I'm going to—ugh—"
"Come for me," John growled.
And Sherlock clamped down around him. He was emptying himself onto John's jumper. Moaning nearly loud enough to shake the windowpanes.
John's orgasm took him almost entirely by surprise. Somewhere in between Sherlock shouting his name, and collapsing on top of him, the heat ripped through him, and he was pulsing inside Sherlock's arse. Crashing on wave after wave of ridiculous euphoria.
Sherlock stayed slumped on him for perhaps a minute or two before rolling off. The air was hot and sticky. John sat up, tugged his jumper off, and threw it across the room before lying back down.
"Did we just combine the fight and the make up sex?" He asked after a minute.
"I dunno. I could probably go for another round of both if you're up for it later," Sherlock drawled in a perfect deadpan. "But you might have to go buy more wine."
"I'm not moving."
"Well then, I guess that's the end of it."
At first the whole alcohol thing had puzzled John greatly.
Once or twice in the first week after the pub incident, he'd made the mistake of touching Sherlock when they weren't drunk. Simple things. Like placing a hand on the small of Sherlock's back as he walked past him in their tiny kitchen, or accidentally brushing their hands together as they walked side by side. The way Sherlock recoiled like he'd been burned and wordlessly stared John down was bloody confusing. Especially when later, after he got liquored up, Sherlock would practically drag John into bed.
It had taken him at least a month of inebriated fucking, before he'd worked up the courage to ask about it.
They'd been lying in Sherlock's bed, plastered, in the middle of the afternoon. Sherlock had been in a relatively good mood. Usually he only cuddled right before sleep, but he'd taken John in his arms and spooned him thoroughly.
"So why is it that you only have drunk sex?" John had asked as casually as possible. His head was resting against Sherlock's chest. He'd felt the taller man let out a long sigh.
"Do you want the simple answer or the complicated one?"
"Whichever you'd like." John bit his lip.
Sherlock was quiet for a minute, as if collecting his thoughts. John listened to the detective's heartbeat. It was a bit quick, but steady. Really, it supported his theory that Sherlock constantly ran on overtime. At a gear above everybody else.
"I normally don't like people touching me, because it's too much sensory information. It overwhelms me. Too much data to process—too much stimulation to be pleasurable. Something as simple as a kiss can feel like sticking a fork in the electrical socket." The detective paused, running his fingers down the side of John's ribcage. "But when I'm drunk, it's like my brain is operating at half-capacity, so physical contact becomes enjoyable."
John didn't quite know how he should react, so he simply nodded, and continued to lie there. Sherlock kissed him on the back of the neck.
"It's not a subject I really like to discuss," Sherlock said quietly.
"That's ok. I suppose we don't need to."
And that was the only conversation they had about it. At least—John thought it would be.
"I want to try something," Sherlock's voice drifted quietly across the kitchen.
John's sleeves were rolled up. He was washing out his teacup, looking out the window over the sink. He finished and turned around. Sherlock was wearing his blue dressing gown, and a pair of pajama trousers. The tall, lean man was chewing on his lip, regarding John with slightly nervous eyes.
It had been a couple of weeks since the texting fight, but only a few days since they'd last had a row about Sherlock using John's computer and somehow getting a hard-drive melting virus on it. They weren't technically still fighting. They'd pretty much fucked it out. But Sherlock looked so tense, John couldn't help but wonder what was wrong.
"All right," John nodded, "what is it you want to do?"
Sherlock opened his mouth and then stopped, frowned slightly, looked at the floor, then looked back up at John before speaking. "First, I don't want you to be offended if it doesn't work. It's never worked before. I don't expect it to. But I'd still like to try."
"Ok…" John was suddenly a little bit worried. He waited a few moments, but it didn't seem like Sherlock was going to explain any further without some nudging. "You still haven't told me what you want."
The taller man walked further into the room with slow, measured steps. He stopped when there was perhaps half a meter separating them.
"I'm not drunk. I'd like to kiss you."
John's eyes widened at that. He'd given up on such fantasies a while ago. He'd come to accept the fact that Sherlock just didn't do sober sex. Was this going to blow up in his face? Probably. But that didn't mean he was going to do anything to stop it.
"All right," John nodded, trying not to seem too eager.
"It's very important that you don't touch me," Sherlock swallowed, "you must let me initiate all physical contact until I ask you to reciprocate. Do you understand?"
"Yeah… you're sure about this? I mean—you really want to?"
Sherlock shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Chalk it up to a kiss in the name of science."
John rolled his eyes. But he supposed he really didn't care about the why of it. He always caved in to what Sherlock wanted. Everything else was just a formality.
"All right. Well, whenever you're ready I suppose," he smiled in what he hoped would be an encouraging manner.
He tried not to get his hopes up. Steeled his nerves for the moment Sherlock pulled back, and told him he couldn't handle it.
The other man stepped forward slowly. John could see his hands trembling. He wanted to reach out and grab a hold of them. Offer comfort. But he'd promised not to.
He could feel Sherlock's breath on his cheek. John closed his eyes and waited. There was a long lag of time where nothing happened. Then he felt the gentle brush of a pair of lips against his. Just once. They lingered for a few seconds before drawing back.
John's heart stopped. His body was reacting. It didn't know the difference between a failed experiment and a normal quick kiss. John started to open his eyes to tell Sherlock it was all right. That he didn't mind. That he wasn't offended.
But then Sherlock's lips were pressed against his again, a bit more firmly. It was still a chaste, close-mouthed kiss, but it was a bit less timid. Not just a peck.
Sherlock drew away again. John could hear him panting slightly. His eyes snapped open. Sherlock's cheeks were a bit flushed. He looked more shocked than anything else. He was still hovering close. Breathing erratically.
"All right?" John asked quietly.
"I don't know… it's… a lot."
"Do you want to stop?"
"Not quite yet."
And Sherlock leaned forward again. Pressing their mouths together. His tongue flicked out questioningly and John parted his lips. It took every ounce of will power the doctor had not to seize control, to ravage the other man thoroughly. Just to let Sherlock's tongue wander into his mouth carefully, and retreat before it got very far.
"Kiss me back." Sherlock's voice was odd and breathy.
But John complied, happily. Returning the pressure of Sherlock's lips. Allowing their tongues to brush against each other slowly. Sherlock let out a tiny gasp. John was hard. His core was burning with an immediate sort of lust. And yet, he was perfectly content to do this. To kiss Sherlock gently, and languidly. It was so completely different from the demanding, devouring, utterly sloppy snogs they'd had before.
Somehow, it felt like the most intimate thing they'd ever done.
Eventually, Sherlock pulled away. His eyes were wide and he looked rather dazed. Like he sometimes did when he accidentally fell asleep on the couch, and woke up hours later by rolling off of it and falling onto the floor with a loud thud.
John gripped the counter behind him to steady himself. To keep from reaching out and pulling Sherlock back in.
"So, how was it?" John knew he sounded nervous. There was no point in trying to hide it.
"The feeling was comparable to injecting cocaine."
John let out a snort. "Are you serious?"
"Don't laugh at me." Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
"I'm not laughing, just—Jesus. The next time you start calling me a useless idiot, I'm going to remind you that kissing me is like doing hardcore drugs."
Sherlock let out a small, annoyed sound and turned on his heel, stalking out of the room. John wondered if he'd just ruined everything. But later that night, there was a bottle of wine set in Sherlock's doorway.
The days and weeks passed in a blur of fucking and arguing and drinking, and being generally far too happy with such a bizarre situation. That one sober kiss lingered in John's mind, but he never commented on it.
He figured Sherlock would either bring it up, or he wouldn't, and it didn't seem like a wise idea to push things. You never knew with Sherlock. Not really. He was hot, passionate fire in John's arms one minute, frigid and distant the next.
It was early in the evening. One of the first quiet days in what seemed like weeks. There were a few mostly empty containers of Chinese take away sitting on the coffee table. The two men were settled on the couch. John was watching the news, while Sherlock stared aimlessly into space.
There wasn't much warning. One moment they were sitting with an entire cushion's worth of space between them, the next, their thighs were pressed together. John didn't know how Sherlock had moved without his noticing, but he wasn't exactly upset.
They stayed like that for a while. The television continued to flicker. John's eyes stayed fixed on it, but he wasn't really paying attention anymore.
He felt the couch sag. Sherlock was swinging his leg over John, and then he was sitting in his lap, straddling him. It felt like the doctor's heart was going to leap out of his chest. He dared to look up. Sherlock looked almost surprised as John felt. It didn't last. Soon their lips were pressed together, mingling in a few heated little kisses.
Sherlock wasn't drunk. He couldn't be. They'd both been lazing around the living room all afternoon. He didn't taste like alcohol or toothpaste. Just the almond cookie John had convinced him to eat earlier. His hands were on John's shoulders, squeezing lightly. Forgetting himself, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist.
The detective tensed and froze.
John let his arms drop immediately, pulling pack, "oh god—I'm sorry—I forgot—"
"It's all right."
Sherlock gave a small, tight smile, and he picked John's hands up, placing them back where they'd been a few moments ago.
"You just surprised me, that's all. It felt nice," the taller man murmured.
And he dove in for another kiss. John didn't understand how this could be so different. After all, they'd been shagging for quite a while now. He'd fucked Sherlock in every imaginable position. Kissed him on countless occasions.
But this… well there was a sort of earnest sweetness to it that was about to blow John's brain clear across the room. The way Sherlock moved so timidly and hesitantly. Seemed almost shy every time he swirled their tongues together.
Almost like a virgin.
Sherlock was moving closer to him, pressing up against him. John could feel the heat radiating off his pale body.
"Touch me," Sherlock's voice was soft and a bit shaky. "Please John…"
Well that just went straight to his cock. But he tried his best to focus. He began to gently trace his fingers across the expanse of Sherlock's back. The detective moaned and shivered. He was so fucking responsive. Most people didn't get like this until you'd been teasing them for an hour.
But Sherlock still had his clothes on, for god's sake. John feathered his fingers up the sides of Sherlock's ribcage and came to the top button of his shirt. He pulled back slightly to ask the question, but before he even opened his mouth, Sherlock was nodding and tugging at the hem of John's jumper.
John lifted his arms to allow for the removal of his own clothing, and then he had to pause for a moment. Because Sherlock's cheeks were flushed. His eyes were wide, and supremely focused—not glassy or dazed. His lips were wet. He was breathing like he'd just run a marathon.
All this just from kissing, John didn't dare imagine what it would be like if they pushed it much further. He hoped. But god. Could either of them handle it?
He unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt with steady hands. Skin to skin contact was a whole different rush. The detective was panting into John's mouth, deepening the kisses, so they were a bit closer to the demanding sloppiness John had grown used to.
But Sherlock wasn't shaky from too much alcohol. He was properly spun-out just from John touching him.
Sherlock's fingers fumbled with the button of John's trousers. He was a bit shocked. Almost stopped to ask—are you sure? But then there was no need. Because Sherlock was definitely sure. His hand was shoved down the front of John's pants, grasping his cock and stroking it. And his other hand had taken hold of John's. Sherlock was pressing John's fingers at his own erection through the fabric of his trousers.
"Please," he whispered.
John felt like a teenager again. Drowning in a haze of lust and hormones. He loosed the button of Sherlock's trousers and pulled down the zip. He was a bit surprised to find that the normally posh detective wasn't wearing any pants. Had he planned for this?
Ah well. It didn't matter.
John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's cock carefully and the taller man groaned, pressing his forehead into John's shoulder. John gave a few long slow, strokes and Sherlock let go of John's erection completely. He was just slumped there, against the doctor's chest. Sounding like he was on the verge of hyperventilation.
"Are you ok?" John asked before he thought about it.
"Don't stop. I'll die."
Well, perhaps that was a bit dramatic. But John kept his hand moving. Watched in awe as Sherlock came apart completely. Unraveling at the seams. Gasping and moaning, and this wasn't like anything else at all.
He wasn't demanding that John go faster. Wasn't spouting endlessly filthy phrases. He was too gone to say anything. He was letting John touch him.
On an impulse, John pulled Sherlock a little bit closer, enough so that he could press their erections against each other and wrap his hand around both of them. Sherlock's mouth found John's blindly, and the kiss was like a half-mumbled phrase. So desperate, and poorly executed, that John couldn't help but find it sexy.
Sherlock began to thrust into John's hand. Against his cock. And fuck all if that wasn't the most beautiful feeling in the world.
John barely dared to breathe, lest he break this beautiful moment. But he tried to match Sherlock's rather erratic movements. Their cocks were slick with pre-cum. Sherlock was trembling.
Sherlock let out a few rapid little moans.
And then he was coming in John's hand. Pulsing. Covering both of them with his seed. Tensing. Slumping. Grunting. Barely breathing. It was more than enough to send John rocketing over the edge as well.
His balls tightened. His stomach coiled in on itself hot and uncomfortable. Then the shocks of pleasure singed through his nerve endings. His come was mixing with Sherlock's. Covering the skin between them, making it sticky.
John let go of their cocks and slumped back into the couch.
Somebody had hit the universal pause button.
Sherlock was looking at him with an odd, stretched out expression of utter bewilderment. Like he'd only just checked in and realized what they'd been doing. John wanted to wrap his arms around him. Cuddle him close. But he wasn't sure if it was allowed.
This was entirely new territory.
After a few moments of this shared tension, Sherlock clambered back over to his side of the couch. He didn't bother to tuck himself back into his trousers. He just sat there as his cock went flaccid. Still covered in their mutual ejaculate.
"Do you want to talk about it?" John asked quietly.
"All right then… everything ok?"
"I don't know. I said I don't want to talk about it."
John opened his mouth to say something else, but Sherlock shot him a frankly disdainful look, and that shut him up.
Two days of silence.
Then a bottle of cognac mysteriously appeared on the table.
Things reverted back to their natural order. Drunk sex. Sober avoidance. John tried his best not to think about any of it.
But it was getting more difficult.
Oh god! That's kind of a cliffhanger, isn't it? But don't worry. I wouldn't actually do that to you. Chapter two is on the way. It will be posted in the next two or three weeks. I promise.
Reviews, favorites, and follows will be cuddled within an inch of their life.
My beta's computer broke, so I edited this on my lonesome. Sorry for any mistakes. They'll be corrected as I find them.
Until next time, darlings.