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John pushed against the black door to Baker Street with a gruff grumble as his drunken fingers attempted to push the key into the lock. He knew he should know better, he wasn’t a young kid excited at the prospect of New Years Eve drinks anymore, and as a middle-aged GP he should definitely know not to mix shots, lager and spirits with only a bag of peanuts to soak up the alcohol, but he was happy and feeling more secure in his life for the first time in a long while. With an adequate job, an exciting pastime of cases, and somewhere he loved to live, John allowed his inner walls to break down and allowed himself to celebrate.
In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have bought the second round of shots.
He definitely shouldn’t have had the third round.
Finally managing to push open the door, John did a happy little dance to himself before heading upstairs with a loud shhhhh to remind himself that Mrs Hudson would be asleep. Sherlock would be awake so he didn’t have to worry about keeping quiet once he was through the threshold of their flat though. He reached the top of the stairs, pushed open the door, kicked off his shoes that had pinched his toes viciously, and walked into the living room where Sherlock was lying on the sofa, reading a book.
“Heylo.” John grinned,
Sherlock ran his eyes across John’s body from top to bottom before rolling his eyes.
"Hello, John. I see Lestrade did a thorough job of drinking you under the table. Again."
The doctor watched as Sherlock set down his book and stretched his lean body like a house cat. A large swath of pale stomach was revealed by the arching of his back as his shirt rode up, and a very inebriated John decided the best course of action was to stare at it.
Sherlock pointedly cleared his throat a few moments later, and when he looked up he met eyes that had been watching him with confusion and amusement.
"Were yew waiting up for me? Not a kid. Can lewk after myseelf," John slurred, attempting to stomp his foot like a petulant child.
He realised the foolishness of the action when he lost his balance and landed on the floor on his arse. Immediately he broke down into a bout of uncontrollable giggling, laughing until tears streamed down his cheeks.
Sherlock was sitting up now, an amused grin half hidden behind the mobile he had aimed in John's direction.
Fierce determination overtook him, and he spent several minutes attempting to stand, only to fall back down again every time.
"Sherlock I can't geet up. I have noodle legs. My legs are noodles."
Stupid legs!
"I thought you said you could look after yourself?"
"Can! Just need teeny bit of hewlp."
Sherlock rose from the sofa and took both of John's hands in his as he slowly pulled him back onto his feet. The younger man tried to return them to his side, but rather than releasing them John tightened his grip and leaned in closer to study him.
Had Sherlock always had such a nice face? He had better tell him.
"Sherlock, yew have a verry nice face."
"Thank you?"
Was he laughing at him now? Rude.
"These cheekbones… Adler was right, yew really could cut yourself on them," he said in his sexiest voice, reaching out and touching the left one with his thumb.
Sherlock shivered a little at the touch but didn't recoil, and that was all the encouragement John needed.
"Yew have no idea how hawt you are, Sherlock. How seexy you are."
"John…I think you should go to bed," Sherlock said softly, meeting his eyes.
The reluctance in the taller man's voice was almost imperceptibly slight, but despite his current state John still didn't miss it.
"I think we should go to beed. Want you sew bad, Shelrock."
"No, you don't, John. Alcohol is impairing your judgment."
John leaned in even closer on unsteady legs until there was barely an inch between them, and his lips curved into a lopsided grin when Sherlock just stared straight into his eyes rather than making any attempt to move away, the younger man's chest rising and falling quickly against his.
"I'm going to kiss yew now."
John leaned in, tilting his head in an attempt to position himself correctly but instead smeared his entire mouth against Sherlock’s ear, almost falling in the process until Sherlock thankfully grabbed him, pulling him flush against him to stop him from falling for the second time in five minutes. John grouched unhappily and attempted to lean back, to get a view of his target but blinked rapidly when he realised two things.
One he had the start of an erection
Two, he desperately needed to pee.
“Hold tha’ thought…” John insisted with his finger held up as he removed himself from Sherlock’s shaking hold, his awkward stumbling steps finally getting him out of the living room to painfully barge into the doorframe and into the bathroom.
Sherlock watched on in confused silence, fingers softly reaching up to press the heated path that John’s lips had taken across his ear. His skin felt hot, and his whole body felt hot and a little bit buzzy from the adrenaline that was rushing through him but he let his still recording phone drop onto the sofa, uncaring of how it was positioned as he ran his hands through his hair stressfully.
In the bathroom John kicked off his shoes and jeans, kicking them to one side as he pulled down his boxers and sat down on the toilet seat, knowing that in his intoxicated state, he probably wouldn't be able to aim properly and the last thing he wanted to do in his hungover state would be to clean the loo. Letting his bladder drain, John sang happily to himself before realizing that he should probably just get undressed for bed now. His shirt and jumper joined the pile of clothes at his feet until he was clad in just his pants. Finishing what he needed to do, John washed his hands and tried them on the hand towel before he immediately stumbled back out into the living room, where Sherlock sat perched in his chair, seemingly in the midst of yet another journey to his mind palace. But the highly unusual sight of John Watson swaying on his feet before him wearing nothing but his underwear instantly got his attention. John watched Sherlock's eyes slowly sweep over his body from head to toe, lingering a beat too long on the doctor's scantily clad groin. Their eyes locked, and a shiver went through John that made him exceedingly happy.
With the kind of bravery that only liquid courage can provide, he lurched closer and began insistently tugging at Sherlock's hand.
"John. What are you doing?" Sherlock protested, patiently prying himself free from John's grip.
"Wasn't done with yew. Need your boday."
Sherlock sighed.
"The only thing you 'need' is to go sleep this off. You're drunk."
John crossed his arms and pouted.
"Nonsense, I am fine!"
"No, you're not, John. It's not happening. I am many things, but an arsehole who sleeps with someone when they aren't in full control of their faculties is not one of them."
John's shoulders sagged, and he finally ceased pulling at the detective.
"No matter how badly I might want to," Sherlock added, in a voice so soft John almost didn't hear it.
If he remembered nothing else of that night the next morning, John hoped he remembered hearing those words.
"But Sheerlock, I reaally-"
"Come, John, I'm taking you to bed where you will sleep. Alone."
John grumbled under his breath but allowed Sherlock to maneuver up the stairs, his unsure footing occasionally causing him to bump backward into Sherlock, his bum pressing against Sherlock’s groin accidentally. John steadied himself at the top of the stairs, stepping back into his bedroom and stopping in the doorway where he leaned, attempting to be seductive as he gave his best come-to-bed eyes. Sherlock stood opposite him, his cheeks flushed and his eyes blown wide but he wouldn’t be swayed, stepping closer in what John expected to be a kiss. John leaned in, his lips puckered but was surprised instead when he kissed the wood of his bedroom door which had been closed on him. Judging by the handle not being fully down it seemed that Sherlock was remaining where he stood, his hand gripping the handle tightly until John grumbled and moved to his bed, faceplanting directly onto the mattress and rapidly falling asleep.
XX
Sherlock didn’t sleep that night.
Whenever he closed his eyes he was met with the vision of John on his eyelids. The plains of unseen skin suddenly being able to be added to his mind palace had kept him occupied for three minutes, followed by hours of fretting and overwhelming arousal. Sherlock tried desperately to cut out the memories of John, open and trusting and ready to kiss but they wouldn’t be removed, holding on for dear life in his synapsis’ and on his mobile phone which he had forgotten about until he had returned back downstairs and realized his phone was still recording. The angle of the footage wasn’t great but it showed enough of John that Sherlock felt himself blush once more as he absently touched himself to full hardness in his chair. He felt like the worst person, like the lowest of criminals but his traitorous body refused to calm back down until he had taken himself in hand, remembering the firm muscle of John’s arse cradling in his groin as they walked upstairs.
Saving the video in a private folder, Sherlock let himself drop into his mind palace, only coming back when he heard the flushing of the toilet and a deep groan from inside as the sink ran followed by shuffling footsteps into the living room.
“I think I have alcohol poisoning.” John groaned, letting his head fall forward as he tightened his dressing gown around him, “Ethanol poisoning at least. I’m dying. Why do I do this to myself? I’m such a dickhead” he grumbled as he pottered to the kitchen, and clicked on the kettle “Almost threw up my lungs.”
“I have no sympathy.” Sherlock commented, pushing himself up into a more dignified position so he could look over at John who was pale, sweaty, and looking incredibly sorry for himself, “You’re a relatively intelligent man and a doctor who knows the consequences of binge drinking. What did you expect after such a heavy intake?”
“Jesus, alright just – leave off it. Your voice is like a nail to my skull.” John grouched and began making them both coffees which he washed down with two painkillers, “Was I a nightmare last night? I can't really remember much after leaving the bar.”
Sherlock’s head slouched in defeat, he had expected an awkward conversation, perhaps raised voices over how inappropriate John had been in his behaviour but he hadn’t expected complete amnesia. Sherlock scanned John’s face in an attempt to see deception, but he found that John was looking a bit green around the gills as he headed back to the loo followed by the door slamming behind him as the coffee and painkillers came back up.
Well, Sherlock admitted, this was a blessing in disguise.
XXX
The next evening found Sherlock perched on the sofa in the dark, his fingers steepled against his mouth as he stared down at the mobile phone in his lap. He knew he ought to stop, knew that these sordid little self-pleasure sessions featuring footage of his inebriated best friend would be frowned upon in most circles. However, a small issue had arisen, namely that without the unique stimuli his little home movie provided, a certain part of his anatomy could not.
He was also all too aware that the likelihood of getting more videos of such nature was slim. Although, encouraging Lestrade to get John drunk again in order to obtain an encore performance was an idea that definitely held merit.
With a deep sigh, his eyes drifted to the watch on his wrist, which cheerily informed him in glowing blue numbers that it was seven o'clock. John had texted him an hour earlier that he was filling in at a late-night clinic and wouldn't be in till ten at the earliest, which meant he had the flat to himself for several hours yet. Good.
Before the guilt that simmered beneath his skin had a chance to dissuade him, he pushed down his pajama bottoms and picked up the bottle of lube next to him. He squirted out a small amount and warmed it a little before taking himself in hand. He hit play on the video as he began to stroke himself from base to tip, feeling his cock slowly harden in his fist. The detective bit down on his lower lip as he allowed the video to replay over and over in an endless loop, focusing his gaze on the curve of the top half of John's perfect arse that was displayed for a few tragically short seconds. He allowed his thoughts to supply what the video lacked: the memory of the way the doctor's skin felt against his. With a small groan, his hand continued its work with urgency as he tumbled closer and closer to the edge, the abundant precome that rolled down his shaft to meet his fingers serving to make the glide even smoother as he eagerly chased after release.
He was so lost in his pursuit of pleasure that he failed entirely to hear the familiar sound of John Watson's tired feet shuffling into the flat. What he did finally hear a few moments later just as he succumbed to his climax, was a startled gasp and a set of keys hitting the floor. He found John's wide eyes and kept his gaze locked on him as he came, his head tipped back a little as ribbons of pearlescent release flowed over his hand to land on his stomach.
John stood rooted to the spot and just stared. He knew he should look away, that ogling Sherlock as he came was inappropriate behavior for a platonic best friend, but he couldn't. Though, in his defense, Sherlock showed no intention to extricate himself from the situation either. What did that mean?
The younger man looked alarmingly beautiful post-orgasm. His cheeks were flushed, likely from a combination of embarrassment and exertion, his normally tidy hair disheveled, and his lips a little swollen from biting them. And the rather large cock that Sherlock was still holding as he stared back at him…well that was a sight to behold in and of itself.
Jesus Christ.
He suddenly became aware for the first time since entering the living room of the sound of a voice, his voice, and he forced his gaze away from Sherlock's still dribbling prick and up to the mobile phone he was clutching in his other hand. His stomach dipped and he cautiously stepped closer to his flatmate.
"You're home early."
"What the hell is that Sherlock?" he asked in a strangled voice.
"Nothing," Sherlock said calmly, hitting pause.
"It doesn't sound like it was nothing. Whatever it was interested you enough to bloody jerk off to it. Is that a video of me?"
Sherlock remained silent for a long moment.
"Yes."
Holy shit. Is he serious?
Without another word, the other man passed the phone to him.
John wordlessly watched his shameless behavior, attempting to force himself to remember the night in question but nothing happened. There was nothing to remember but obviously things had happened, things he wanted to happen.
Returning to the present John watched as Sherlock attempted to clean himself up and tuck himself away. His cheeks a beautiful red flush and his eyes darting in an attempt to find a way around John without violence. John realised in a sudden blinding ache that Sherlock was expecting to be hit for this. Was expecting to face a violent backlash.
He didn’t expect John to lean into his space and kiss him.
The angle was wonky and their noses hadn’t quite aligned properly but with a quick tilt of his head John was able to deepen the kiss, the hand not wrapped around the phone moving to cup Sherlock’s cheek to anchor him there as the younger man trembled and anxiously reached up to grab any part of John he could, overwhelmed and overexcited at the prospect.
“M’sorry” John muttered against his lips, kissing again and again before throwing the phone across the room to the sofa where it landed with a thunk, “I had no idea… I didn’t know…”
“I know. That’s why I didn’t say anything. I didn’t think you’d want – well, want me. When you’re sober I mean…” Sherlock blushed, looking away, “I know you’re not attracted to me. I know I’m not what you want but…”
“You’re everything I want,” John insisted, crouching down so they were at eye level “You’re everything I need. Everything I’ve ever hoped and dreamed for. You’re – Christ, Sherlock I love you. You twat.” John snorted with a hiccup of emotion, pushing their foreheads together.
“But… How… I….” Sherlock stammered, eyes flickering across John’s face, reading every microexpression, “This doesn’t make sense, I don’t understand John….”
“The only time I feel whole is when I’m with you…” John whispered, “Everything in my life was a mess - no friends, no family, no future. You gave me that back. You gave me everything.”
“You deserve more… You deserve a family and a wife and children. You deserve the little house in the suburbs and a dog, you deserve peace.” Sherlock replied, forcing himself to remember every inch of John’s face.
“I have a family. It’s you, you idiot” John laughed, “You and Mrs. Hudson, and Billy the Skull. This is my home, this is my family, and if sometime you decide you want to retire to some quiet little village then I’ll have the house in the suburbs and a little dog - and I’ll have you. I’ll have everything I need.”
“Please kiss me…” Sherlock begged, “Please never stop kissing me.”
"Gladly," John whispered.
He pushed a stray raven curl out of the younger man's dazzling eyes, and allowed the magnetism between them to guide his lips back to Sherlock's. Back to where he had decided they belonged. Something had shifted between the pair over the course of the conversation. Sherlock now returned his kisses with a newfound confidence that had something stirring deep in the doctor's belly. John, no longer afraid of scaring him away, disconnected his lips from Sherlock's for just long enough to slide up and onto his lap.
As he licked back into Sherlock's mouth he rolled his hips down into him in a slow, deliberate motion. The other man gasped into his mouth.
"John," Sherlock said with mock surprise, "you appear to have an erection!"
John mirrored his smug smile.
"A sound deduction. I think it's only fair that the person responsible for it remedies the situation, don't you Sherlock?"
"That does indeed seem to be the only proper course of action," Sherlock agreed in an almost purr, sliding out from beneath him to kneel on the floor.
The way Sherlock stared up at him with lust-blown pupils as he set to work on his belt almost had John coming untouched. His heart began practically beating out of his chest with anticipation when the younger man finally got his trousers undone and pushed them down his legs, revealing John's tented underwear and the patch of precome soaking through them. Sherlock leaned forward and licked a long line up him through the damp material, and John cursed. He watched, enraptured, as his lover took hold of the waistband and yanked it down forcefully. His painfully hard prick sprang up to hit his belly the moment it was freed from its cotton prison.
John was of course well aware that his cock was unquestionably above average in size, and was used to the surprise on partners' faces when they saw it for the first time, but he savored Sherlock's shock as he took it in all the same. He recovered from his shock quickly, reaching out his hand and finally, finally taking him in hand. John moaned as the other man's skilled tongue traced the length of him once again- this time sans underpants-his hand reflexively flying out to grab at Sherlock's silky hair. His eyes never strayed from John's as he licked away a bead of precome from the slit and began tonguing his frenulum, and John wondered for the first time since arriving home if in reality he had fallen asleep in his office again and was currently having a rather raunchy dream.
The doctor groaned as the other man closed his mouth around him at long last, engulfing him in heavenly wet heat. His back arched as Sherlock began to lick and suck at his throbbing cock in earnest, and it was immediately clear to him that this was far from Sherlock's first rodeo. He took hold of a handful of his dark curls, tightening his grip as he used it to set the younger man’s pace, and watched with half-closed eyes as his length slowly disappeared between Sherlock's plump lips inch by maddening inch. Nonsensical words of praise tumbled from John’s lips like a prayer in between gasps and moans as Sherlock worked. His lover took him even deeper still, and when he hit the back of his throat the sensation of Sherlock gagging around him had John cursing loudly as his hips tried to fly upwards towards the source of his pleasure. But Sherlock would not allow it, and instead grinned wickedly around his mouthful as he kept him pinned firmly to the sofa with his free hand.
Sherlock suddenly pulled off of John’s aching cock with a filthy pop, and a whine of disapproval slipped from John’s lips. He watched, confused, as Sherlock stood, only to see that the detective’s own penis was somehow once again at full mast. Sherlock took him by the hand and pulled him up and off the sofa, and as he was being hurriedly dragged through the flat in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom he suddenly understood.
Once they were through the door, Sherlock locked it behind them and immediately captured John’s lips in his as he shed his clothes, before moving on to roughly tug off John’s shirt, the only item of clothing the older man was still wearing. The moment they were both fully naked, John was roughly pushed backward onto Sherlock’s bed, huffing out a surprised breath as he landed on the plush mattress. He stared up at Sherlock as he slid up to cover John’s body with his, panting, and they paused to share a small smile as their eyes locked. Sherlock looked so impossibly beautiful naked that John blinked hard several times to reassure himself that he was actually real. His body was bathed in slithers of light from the streetlights outside that only served to give him an almost ethereal glow as he loomed over him.
“Hi.”
“Hey there,” John whispered, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair out of Sherlock’s eyes.
“Are you sure about this? It has just occurred to me that I neglected to ask you if you wished to engage in penetrative intercourse, which seems rude on my part.”
John laughed.
“God yes, you daft sod!”
Sherlock grinned, pressing a small peck to John’s lips before slowly kissing his way down the side of his neck. John moaned into the touch as he stopped to suck and worry at the patch of skin right over his pulse point, his head tipping back against the satin sheets. He found himself eagerly anticipating the mark that would blossom there later. Sherlock’s lips continued their adventure along the planes of John’s body, making a pitstop to shower a nipple with attention. John shuddered and gasped beneath the detective as his tongue flicked at the sensitive pink nub, his hands fisting in the sheets. The detective continued lower still to trace the trail of hair leading down to John’s groin with his tongue, smiling against his skin at the moan he was rewarded with.
“Top drawer.”
Sherlock nodded and reached over John to retrieve the bottle of lube from his bedside table. The box of condoms next to it went ignored; as a doctor, both men were tested regularly at John’s insistence. John watched, his heart thudding rapidly in his chest, as Sherlock warmed some of the liquid before ever so slowly touching a slicked finger to the furled skin of John’s entrance. He slowly massaged the sensitive area for a few moments before pressing inside. The doctor moaned wantonly as he inserted the digit up to his first knuckle, and then the second as he began to slowly stretch him. Before long a second finger joined the first, and he desperately arched up towards Sherlokc’s hand as he started to scissor them inside him. Sherlock crooked them and successfully made contact with his prostate, relentlessly stroking over it as John writhed beneath him.
“I swear to god, Sherlock, if you don’t get inside me right now, I am actually going to kill you,” John gasped out a few moments later.
“Alright, fine,” Sherlock laughed, removing his fingers.
Sherlock slid back up John’s body and nudged his legs farther apart with his own as he lined himself up with his hole. The pair locked eyes once more as he gently pushed forward until the head of his leaking cock breached the ring of muscle.
“Shit!” John exclaimed through clenched teeth at the burn, twisting the sheets in his fists with a white-knuckled grip.
Sherlock froze and waited until the older man had adjusted to the intrusion before continuing to slowly press inside. Both men moaned in unison when Sherlock bottomed out, his balls flush with John’s arse. John had forgotten what it felt like to be so impossibly full.
“You alright?”
“I am now, it’s just been a while. Please, don’t hold back.”
Sherlock smiled and captured John’s lips as he started to thrust in and out of his warm channel. John’s earlier discomfort quickly became a forgotten memory. His nails scrambled for purchase on Sherlock’s pale back as he desperately met him thrust for thrust until they had built up into a marvelous rhythm that had the world around them fading away until it consisted of nothing but the two of them.
“Jesus, John, you feel so bloody good!” Sherlock hissed against his lips and made good on John’s request that he not hold back, rutting into him with enough gusto to make the bed rock against the wall.
He paused for a moment to readjust his angle, and his next thrust made direct contact with John’s sweet spot. John gasped, his hips flying up so suddenly that he would have vaulted directly off it if it weren’t for Sherlock’s weight pinning him to the mattress.
“Fuck yes! Right there!” the older man moaned, and Sherlock continued to target the small bundle of nerves inside him until he was clinging to him sweaty and half-ruined.
Sherlock took hold of the neglected prick that was leaking precome against John’s belly and began to pump it in his fists in time with his thrusts. A moment later John’s climax hit him like a freight train, and he yelled out Sherlock’s name with a raw throat as he came, ribbon after ribbon of pearly seed flowing down Sherlock’s hand as his vision blurred and his orgasm all but ripped him apart. The rhythmic clenching of John’s inner walls around his member was enough to tip Sherlock over the edge and he groaned as he came deep inside the older man, filling him to the brim. He collapsed limply against John, who kissed the top of his head and wrapped his arms around him. They lay together in the quiet for a long time, their heavy breathing as they recovered the only sound that broke the blissful silence.
“Remind me to thank Lestrade sometime.”
“For what?” John laughed, lifting his head to frown at him.
“For getting you sloshed that night. We owe this to him, technically.”
John snorted, and kissed him.
“What is a good gift that says ‘thank you for being the catalyst that finally got John and I to admit our feelings for each other and tumble into bed?’ A fruit basket? My brother’s phone number so that those two can finally stop dancing around eachother and just get on with it already?”
John dissolved into a fit of giggles beneath him, and Sherlock instantly fell victim to his infectious laugh.
“I love you, Sherlock, do you know that?”
“I do now. I suppose I share similar feelings.”
John’s lifted brow almost disappeared into his hair.
“Fine. I love you too, John Watson.”
“Better.”
They shared a grin, and John rested his head against Sherlock’s chest.
He made a mental note to text Greg Mycroft’s number first thing in the morning.