Chapter Text
1.
Sherlock had been feeling particularly obdurate all week.
First, he had tried his hand at an experiment involving the levels and different types of carcinogens released by polyester (the same “fabric” that made up 95% of John’s comforter) when set aflame. The aftermath left John feeling despondent (and quite cold that night).
Then there was the matter of the demise of the only mirror in the apartment. Late one night, John arrived home from a night out with Stamford, a bit drunker than usually acceptable. Sherlock eyed him with mildly amused disdain as he trudged up the seventeen steps into the sitting room.
“Sherlock!” John shouted as he grinned from ear to ear.
Sherlock took notice of the glazed look in John’s eyes, the weak slouch, the mouth held slightly agape. “Vacant,” he muttered as he stood and stared John in the eye. “So, you decided to go with the whisky tonight, did you?” He flashed one of his trademark one-corner-of-the-mouth smirks as he adjusted the buttons on his blazer, turning around to face the window.
John’s drunken grin faded, replaced by a mild confusion. “I...I only had a few drinks...how could you tell? No, no, wait. Don’t...don’t answer that...” John lifted a hand (halfheartedly) in protest, but Sherlock had already heard the request.
I know how you like me to show off, John. Sherlock thought.
“I could tell the moment I heard your shuffling gait coming up the steps. You were trudging, so clearly you had more than a few beers to drink, but you were only gone for two hours, which tells me that you hadn’t any beer at all. You’re not a vodka man–you think it’s foul and has no flavor. Quite correctly, I’d agree. The next option is rum, but given your Scottish heritage–Scottish? Obviously. Hamish–you’d clearly go for the more domestic liquor. Domestic, strong, flavorful...the clear option is whisky.” Sherlock smirked to himself. I could also smell it on your breath, but if I told you that, you’d accuse me of cheating.
Sherlock listened for an argumentative response, but heard nothing. He turned around to see John staring at the mirror. Sherlock furrowed his brow. “John?”
John giggled and stared at Sherlock’s likeness. “Look at those cheekbones!” He walked toward the reflections with his hand outstretched. He rested his fingertips on the glass and stared at Sherlock. The latter man inched forward, a combination of whimsy and bewilderment buzzing in the air about him. John swung around, pointing.
“CHEEKBONES!” he cried. Then he began to laugh–a deep, belly laugh that subsided into a throaty wisp of a noise within seconds. Sherlock put a hand on John’s shoulder, attempting to push him toward the door. “I think it’s time you got some rest, John. You’ve clearly had a night of a sort.” John shrugged the hand away a bit too roughly, and spun around, pinning Sherlock against the fireplace. His misty-eyed gaze was a bit clearer as he stared intently into Sherlock’s slightly shocked eyes. Sherlock had seen John drunk on several occasions, but none such as this.
“John...”
John didn’t respond. Instead he slammed his face into Sherlock’s.
Is this his idea of a kiss?! Sherlock asked himself. He didn’t want to take advantage of John, but neither did he want to miss such an opportunity. He pushed John roughly away from him, but John barely budged. He teetered, but didn’t fall. Rather, he spun a full 360 degrees, and fell forward again. Sherlock ducked out of the way and John slammed his hand into a candelabrum on the mantelpiece, which in turn collided with the mirror, cracking and shattering a hundred chunks from it.
John stumbled backward and stared at his hands for a second as if marveled by his own strength. “Wo-ow...”
The flustered consulting detective huffed and grabbed John gruffly, shoving the Doctor down the hallway. They reached Sherlock’s bedroom, and John was shoved unceremoniously onto the bed. He tugged on the bedspread, pulling the thick blanket over his face, mumbling something about how warmly he would sleep tonight. Sherlock stood with his hands on his hips a moment and moved forward to pull off his flatmate’s shoes.
As his hand reached John’s ankle, the blanket flew from the latter man’s face. Sherlock had less than a second to think about the situation before John crashed down on top of him, pinning him to the floor. John’s warm, liquor-scented breath was against Sherlock’s jaw one second, replaced the next by wet, thin lips. Sherlock put his hands against John’s shoulders and made a weak attempt to push John away. John protested with...a moan? A whine? A grunt? Whatever the noise was, it rendered Sherlock helpless. He let John lick and suck at his jawline for a moment before meeting the lips with his own. They exchanged a passionate, sloppy kiss.
John exhaled heavily as he was pushed upward. Sherlock stared into his eyes. “You really should get some rest.” He slipped from underneath the other man and bounced to his feet, leaving the room and the moment behind him with the closing of the door. As he reached the kitchen he heard a loud grunt, followed by a quasi-adolescent “Oh, my God!”
I'll see you in the morning, John.