Chapter Text
1.
After the pool incident, Sherlock thought that John had seemed a bit… off.
The man was unpredictable, so Sherlock wasn’t sure how much good his ‘expert opinion’ was in this circumstance. John had seen death and had brushed it himself once before, so it wasn’t a near-death state of shock that he was reacting to. There hadn’t been a flare-up of his PTSD (his nightmares had waned over the last few months, and Sherlock hadn’t heard him screaming in weeks), and his limp was still a non-issue. On paper, John Watson was perfectly fine.
But, as Sherlock watched with narrowed eyes as John stared at the kettle until it boiled as if in a state of trance, there was something irrefutably ‘up’ with John that couldn’t be defined.
With John, though, Sherlock had little tact, so it didn’t take long for the issue to bubble to the surface.
“Moriarty,” Sherlock began one morning over toast, eyes training unblinkingly at John and teacup up to his lips. At the word John’s eyes flashed up, mouth pursing and spine straightening hard for a split moment before he forcibly relaxed. He turned his eyes back down to the newspaper in his hands as if he hadn’t just reacted. Telling, very telling.
“What about him?” He asked with careful nonchalance.
Sherlock set down his cup, only breaking his stare to lift a jam-slathered slice of toast to his mouth. “You shouldn’t let him bother you. You’re not the one he’s after.”
Technically a lie, but John didn’t need to know that. Sherlock hardly made sense of it himself. John didn’t look up from the paper, but he lifted it slightly and his grip on it tightened at the words. “I’m not…” He soon realized that lying was pointless, so he folded the paper with a sigh and tossed it off to the side. He played with his own slice, eyes trained downward. “How can you be so sure?” He asked quietly.
Sherlock shrugged, leaning back in his seat. He brushed off the crumbs from his lap. “You were used as a pawn, but it’s doubtful he would repeat a performance. Jim Moriarty is like the playwright for an extravagant Broadway script; he’s writing his own rules, but he loathes cliches and anything the audience can predict.” Sherlock absentmindedly pressed at his lips with his finger, thoughtful. “We’re nearly at the end of Act 1, I’d think. Something’s coming, but I don’t have enough data to precisely figure out what. It’s utterly exciting.”
Another hefty sigh, and John pushed away his plate with a grimace. “How good for you two,” he muttered.
Sherlock ignored that, eyes drinking in what they can from John’s appearance. “You’ve lost a half-stone in the two weeks since the ordeal,” Sherlock commented. “You need to eat more.”
John quirked his lips. “You’re telling me,” he joked.
“Yes, well,” Sherlock said, trying to keep his mouth from curving at the corners. “I prefer my doctors healthy and at the top of their game, you understand.”
“Mmm,” John hummed back, mirthful.
“I can’t have a skeleton running after me while we’re chasing criminals, you see. People might talk.”
“I’m under the impression that people do little else.” John replied lightly, sipping at his tea.
Sherlock gave into his smile this time, and the room fell into the most comfortable silence it’s had in the last two weeks.
* * *
“Sh’lock! I’m home!” John yelled from the doorway, even though Sherlock was currently in his armchair typing from John’s laptop. He glanced up, and in one sweep he was able to deduce that not only was John drunk , but he was the more rarely-seen form of it: he was wasted.
Against the door, John giggled and began to slide down to the floor. With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock set the laptop aside to stretch to his feet, legs stiff from disuse. “John,” he greeted with disinterest, maneuvering around the messy living room to stand before the pile of the man. “Welcome home. I’m assuming you’re sleeping at the doorway tonight?”
John hummed through a smile, body slid all the way down until only his head was propped against the door, chin to his chest. “Yes,” he decided.
Sherlock nodded, and crouched down so he could be more level with the man. “You’re a doctor,” he commented. “Is this position comfortable enough for the human body to sustain overnight?”
John pretended to ponder it, though it was mostly him staring at nothing since he was so far gone. “Yes,” he eventually gurgled from his cramped position.
“No,” Sherlock corrected. “I’m going to help you up to your room now. Is that alright?”
“Yes,” said John.
Sherlock paused before moving into action. “Can you say anything other than yes?”
John’s eyes lit up. “No!” He replied triumphantly, face looking as if he was trying to damndest to control another fit of giggles. He struggled to push himself back up from the floor.
With a sigh, Sherlock helped him up with considerably more strength needed than he expected. He wrapped an arm around John’s waist and threw the other man’s arm over his shoulder, supporting the majority of his weight. From there on, Sherlock led them back through the doorway and towards the stairwell leading up to John’s bedroom. John had made it up the first flight of stairs; the second shouldn’t be too difficult, should it?
Sherlock was wrong. It took them roughly four minutes to get up a single flight of stairs, and from there John didn’t seem to be finished with Sherlock yet. Flopping onto his bed, he started at his belt.
“M’shoes,” he complained, halfheartedly kicking his feet together to slide his shoes off to no avail. “Please,” he added.
“Really?” Sherlock asked incredulously, though he was already moving into action and untying John’s trainers. “I’ll remember this night,” he warned without heat.
John snorted. “I won’t!”
Sherlock gave a mirroring snort, sliding off John’s socks with his shoes. The other man was fumbling with his belt, fingers heavy and uncoordinated. Sherlock made sure his sigh was loud and withering.
“Let me,” he said, beginning to lean forward to undo John’s belt himself.
It all seemed to happen at once. As Sherlock reached further over the bed, and as John began to sit up, their heads knocked together and noses pressed uncomfortably. Their lips didn’t even touch, Sherlock realized when he thought back on it. But at that moment, before John could flop back down and before Sherlock could apologize, the air just… shifted. John’s eyes this close were cobalt blue and hazy from his inebriation, unfocused on Sherlock’s eyes but suddenly and obviously enrapt when they dropped to his mouth. Sherlock could feel the other man’s heat against his skin and he felt his heart throb which much more force than usual.
I’ll burn the heart out of you.
The room burned as hot as fire, and altogether both men fell into each other.
God, but it’s been years. Sherlock bit and slid his way into John’s mouth with vague familiarity of his movements, following John down to press him into the mattress. John, despite his not inconsiderable state of mind, was pleasantly skillful as he used his tongue, one hand threaded through Sherlock’s curls and the other kneading at his arse.
Sherlock had to remember that this was a heavily impaired man he was dealing with, so he pulled back reluctantly to ask: “Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” John hissed impatiently, using his grip to both tug their hips flush against each other and yank Sherlock’s head back to nibble at his neck. Sherlock winced, but he was definitely not averse, returning in a similar sense of frenzy as he gave himself into his long-dormant desires that were currently bubbling to the surface. When his hands dropped, it was to unbuckle John’s belt with a quick flick of his wrist, and to pop open the button of his jeans.
John groaned again, returning to Sherlock’s lips with fervor and reaching around to his back to push his shirt up to his shoulder blades. Taking the hint, Sherlock sat up to strip himself of his shirt and taking the time to unbuckle his own trousers. John watched him with hooded eyes, and Sherlock had to close his eyes with a hiss of breath when a hand pressed deliciously into his hardening groin. “That’s...” he muttered breathlessly.
“Yes,” John sighed, grinding his hips up into Sherlock’s arse where he was straddled. For a man as intoxicated as John, he seemed to have no problem maintaining an erection of his own. Sherlock leaned down just enough to brace his hands on John’s shoulders, and he gave another experimental roll of his hips.
John keened.
Starting at the sound, Sherlock rolled off to finish stripping himself, kicking off his trousers and pants along with his socks. John had barely managed his own shirt in the meantime, and his vest was slightly plastered to his skin. His hands were pushing at his jeans and pants, trying to free his cock to no avail.
Sherlock felt his blood heat at the sight. Dropping to his knees, Sherlock grabbed John’s waistband on either side to both free his erection and tug his hips closer to the edge. Hands dropping to dig into John’s clothed calves, Sherlock swallowed down his cock in one move.
“Sher-!” John shouted, cutting himself off to fall into a string of curses. His hips were thrusting shallowly, so Sherlock reached up to brace his forearm to his lower abdomen and keep him still. He released him with a pop, only to lick his way teasingly down the shaft and back to return his ministrations.
“Brilliant,” John was able to gasp, and an intense rush of arousal went straight to Sherlock’s groin. With his free hand, he reached down to wrap around himself and he nearly shuddered with relief. He moaned around John’s cock, and an extra bead of bitter precum dropped on his tongue.
A hand creeped back into Sherlock’s curls, just resting, and he didn’t mind. And then it tightened with a sharp pinch, and Sherlock nearly came just then.
Soon, John’s hips became frantic from what Sherlock could feel from beneath his arm. “Sherlock, I’m…” he warned, his hand releasing Sherlock’s hair to tangle into his bedsheets.
Sherlock pulled off and gripped around John’s erection to finish him off, licking down to his testicles and matching the pace with the hand around his own cock. John came over his abdomen with a cut off shout, hips bucking and legs flexing. When he became oversensitive, Sherlock released him and focused on himself, pressing his forehead into John’s thigh.
“I can…” John offered with a slur.
“Mmm,” Sherlock replied, head shaking. He was close, anyway. It’s been years since he’d even felt arousal; his hand vs. someone else’s hand didn’t really make a difference at this point. With a shudder and a heavy exhale, he came over John’s comforter and floor. When he glanced up, John was watching him with wide eyes.
“Beautiful,” he muttered, then unable to stop his eyes from closing and head from falling against the mattress. Sherlock lingered for a moment, catching his breath, before standing unsteadily on his feet.
“That was…” Sherlock started, and then stopped. He shook his head with a frown. “Good. It was good.”
“Good,” John replied simply. His voice was lower; he was nearly asleep. “M’sorry I din’t…”
Sherlock was gathering his clothes from the floor, only bothering to put back on his trousers. “No, no, don’t worry. It’s fine. All fine,” he said awkwardly.
John hummed, and he was too far gone from then on. Would he remember tonight, Sherlock wondered? It wouldn’t be hard to guess if he awoke in his current position, and Sherlock was hardly going to undress him further for bed. With a lasting, uncertain look, Sherlock took his leave and quietly shut the door behind him.
* * *
The next morning, Sherlock was at his microscope when John emerged from the shower. He glanced up, taking what he could from observation. Eyes hooded, movements careful: hungover. He had shaved, though there was a slight cut on his cheek. Still drunk? No, it’s been 10 hours, give or take; malnourished. Low blood sugar, shaky. He wouldn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes, even though he knew he was there.
He remembered last night.
“John,” Sherlock greeted, returning back to his microscope, though keeping his eyes trained on the other man above as he went into the kitchen and rummaged for a glass. “How are you feeling?”
A pause. “Like shit,” John admitted, pouring water from the tap. “That’s the last time I go to a coworker’s birthday party.”
He then stood at the entranceway to the kitchen, gaze trained on Sherlock as he drank and fiddled with the glass. He needed to say something. Sherlock leaned back in his seat to give him his full attention.
“Sherlock…” He began nervously. “About last night…”
Sherlock was expecting many things. He was expecting John to apologize, he was expecting John to skirt around the issue. Another part of him was even expecting John to ask if they could keep up the arrangement (as he had definitely shown Sherlock that he was not against gay sex last night). But, as per usual, John said the thing that Sherlock didn’t expect.
“I’m sorry I took advantage of you,” John said with a rush of air. “It was wrong of me, and it won’t happen again.”
Sherlock blinked, once. “You do know that you were the one who was drunk, right?” He tried.
John shook his head. “I knew what was happening, and I didn’t stop myself. I know that you’re… against this sort of thing.”
Well, John wasn’t wrong. For nearly all of their brief acquaintance, Sherlock had shown not even an inch of sexual interest, because there wasn’t any there to begin with. Something changed last night, a switch flipped that caused Sherlock to be utterly and irretrievably attracted to John. Now, it was quiet again, but like a volcano; he could feel it just below the surface, dangerous and unpredictable. But, at the moment, the atmosphere was as it was before this whole issue, though maybe a bit more awkward.
“It’s fine,” Sherlock said eventually, tearing his eyes away. Because it was fine; he could go without having sex with John Watson. He had gone 34 years without it before and he was perfectly neutral about the matter of it happening again.
“Good,” John said with a nod, shoulders relaxing as if he just shrugged off an invisible weight. “I promise, it’ll never happen again,” he added. He then disappeared back into the kitchen, more than likely to fix some breakfast.
The words Sherlock shouldn’t care about, the ones that some part of him wasn’t dreading to hear. He tried to shake it off, tilting his head back down to the microscope. But, for the oddest reason, the fact that what happened last night would never happen again seemed to bite annoyingly at him.
“Huh,” Sherlock muttered absently, definitely not disappointed. Not in the slightest.