Chapter Text
They were drunk.
Drunk enough, it seems, to have lost all sense of personal space. In the front room of their flat (well, Sherlock's flat now) they leaned toward each other from their chairs, playing some sort of guessing game.
It was John's turn. He slid forward, almost off his chair, his hand landing on Sherlock's knee. He pulled it back. "Sorry."
Sherlock's mouth twisted to a smile. "I don't mind." His head was spinning, and the brief warmth of John's hand was like an anchor.
"Am I...you...you don't mind?" He squinted at his friend's face, then stretched his arm out and let his hand fall back to Sherlock's knee. John waited, but all he did was smile drunkenly. "This," John nodded at their connection. "This is okay with you?"
Sherlock shrugged awkwardly. "Course it is. It's your stag night, John. You should have what you like."
John closed his eyes. Well, fuck all, he thought. If I'd had what I like " I wouldn't need a stag party," he said aloud. His eyes flew open.
"Hmm?" Sherlock's eyes had closed too. His hand was on John's. When did that happen?
John drew in a breath. They were drunk, Sherlock probably blackout drunk. Sod it. "If I'd had what I like, I wouldn't need a stag party," he said.
Sherlock's eyes slowly opened. He fixed his gaze on John. No expression. Not good.
"John." Sherlock's voice was dark, infused with drink. It was dim in the room, just one light on. John tried to focus on his face but all he could see were those eyes, blue and green at once.
"John," he repeated.
"Yeah, Sherlock." John drew his mouth into a thin line, preparing either for an inquisition or for Sherlock to vomit.
"You should have what you like."
Did he hear him right? John looked away. He couldn't hope for anything, not even this drunk he couldn't. Not now.
Sherlock leaned forward, sliding his hand along John's arm. "I'm the best man," he blurted.
John laughed. "Yeah, you are."
"I'm important, too!"
John laughed again. "Yes," he agreed.
"Then..." Sherlock gestured to himself, "I should have what I like, too."
John stilled. "What do you like?" he asked slowly.
"Well...you," Sherlock replied, as if it was the most obvious answer of all. His hand had moved to John's shoulder and he gripped it tightly. "You," he repeated. "Doctor Watson." A small smile quirked his lips.
John nodded, still not seeing. "You need a doctor, now?"
Sherlock's expression shifted, all dark seriousness. "Yes," he whispered.
John felt Sherlock's hand along his neck, felt his thumb brush his mouth. He realized his own hand had gone wandering as they'd moved closer. All the way up Sherlock's thigh, fingers splayed, flexing into the fabric of his trousers and the pale skin beneath. Too far, he thought, retreating.
Sherlock seized his hand. "Really. I don't mind," he said, drawing John's hand back. John's heartbeat had kicked up, Sherlock's had too. He could see it in his breathing, in the faint flush painting his cheeks. John's hand was at his hip. Access point to the ilioinguinal nerve. Innervates the spermatic cord, round ligament, upper scrotum and penis, and is surprisingly accessible. One hard squeeze would go right to- John swallowed slowly, uncertainty clearing away.
It would go straight to Sherlock's cock.
John's thumb pressed into Sherlock's hip, past the bone and into the yielding flesh. Hooked along the inside of his ilium and drew back.
The shocked gasp Sherlock let out had John transfixed. He felt the drunkenness slipping away, replaced for a moment by clarity. So beautiful. It was always there, this observation, but never in words. With his head thrown back, dark curls tousled, lost in the sensation John had given him, it was undeniable.
John relaxed his hold. Sherlock gradually focused on John's blown pupils and parted lips, and gracelessly launched himself onto John's lap.
"Boys!" Mrs. Hudson called out as she reached the top step to their flat. "You've got a -oh!" She'd seen the situation, spun around and strong-armed a brunette woman away. "Sorry, dear. Seems they are quite indisposed at the moment. I'll tell them you came 'round," she said, smiling. She smiled all the way down the stairs, after she'd said goodbye and shut the door, and went into her own flat. Behind her door, she let out one elated giggle.
The intrusion, however brief, had rather upset whatever they had been heading toward. Sherlock had extricated himself from John's chair and was leaning against the mantel with one hand pressed to the side of his head. John, silent, stayed sitting.
"What do you take for a hangover?" Sherlock asked.
"You don't have one yet," John replied.
"Well, I will do," Sherlock said. "First time. What do you take?"
John cleared his throat. "Ibuprofen. And stay hydrated." He tried to judge if standing, heading downstairs, and catching a cab was advisable in his state. He was feeling the urge to flee. Feeling like never leaving again. Feeling like closing the damned door when they'd got back would have been a bloody fantastic idea.
"Will you stay?" Sherlock asked.
"What?"
"Stay. Your room is still here, after all. I think Mrs. Hudson made up the bed. Must've known we'd get pissed."
John managed a laugh. "Think I will." Slowly, carefully, he got to his feet. "Thanks for a...a night, Sherlock."
Sherlock smiled, one hand still crushed to his temple, only one eye still open. "Night, John."
John headed, rather unsteadily, to his old room. Mrs. Hudson had indeed made it up for him. He couldn't be too upset with her. After all, he'd had ages to have made a move. And a drunken, clumsy move in the end.
He closed the bedroom door.
Sherlock remained by the fireplace for some time. He stared down the shadowed hall where John had gone. "Not like this," he told the darkness. "John Watson. He deserves better."