Sherlock slumped into his chair with John's laptop humming on his lap. He knew he shouldn't be snooping, but he couldn't help himself. Good thing John was out with an old friend, although he didn't know when he would be coming back.
"Come on you damn thing. Load! I haven't got all night," Sherlock cursed.
He really didn't. He shifted through files, emails, looking for personal information about the past few weeks. John hadn't been the same. Too quiet, too unsocial. Hardly even complaining to Sherlock about his bad leg working up again. But this was one mystery that he was having a hard time figuring out. He just couldn't seem to piece things together.
"This is what I get," thought Sherlock, "letting someone this close to me. Now I can't just read his mind. I actually have to get my hands dirty."
Just then he heard someone coming up the stairs. But the footsteps were lighter and slower, so it couldn't be John. Mrs. Hudson peeked her head around the corner of the doorway. Sherlock quickly slammed the laptop shut and shoved it under a pillow behind him.
"Not that it is any of my business, although I'm your land-lady Sherlock, but was that John's laptop you had just then?"
His mind was frantic, trying to find an answer. Why was he having such a hard time thinking straight? Maybe it was because he was out of nicotine patches. Or maybe it was because this had to do with John...
"I- I was just- he let me borrow it because mine crashed." "Good enough," he thought.
"Well, not trying to be nosy anyways," she continued. "I actually came up here because next door, some are having electrical issues, and I was wondering if you were also."
Still trying to calm his mind, Sherlock cleared his throat.
"No, no. Everything is fine Mrs. Hudson. I can assure you."
"Well alright, if you say so," she replied with a concerned look on her face, and she left.
After leaping to the doorway just to double check, Sherlock made his way to the fridge to find something to ease his mind. Finding nothing, his gaze drifted towards the liquor cabinet. Two bottles of Champagne could be clearly seen from the far side of the kitchen. He hadn't had alcohol in so long. He had never wanted to in fear of disappointing John.
"And again, god! Thinking about John. Champagne is it."
Sitting back down in the chair, he poured a small glass of the sparkling liquid, swirled it around and tasted it. It bubbled on his lips and as he swallowed, the Champagne acted as glorified acid, burning down his throat like a thirst that longed to be quenched but already had. Then it cooled down Sherlock's esophagus and sizzled in his stomach. The sensation was almost overwhelming. But he couldn't stop there. Glass after glass of Champagne, until the glass lost its meaning and he just drank out of the bottle. With one empty and only a fifth left in the second, there came a slight squeak of a door, and someone hobbled up the stairs.
"Jaaaaawn..? Dat *hiccup* you?"
There was silence, then,
"Sherlock, of course it- Sherlock! What the HELL are you doing? Explain. NOW."
John had obviously seen the bottles of alcohol on the table but Sherlock didn't even care for the shaking fury in John's voice, he just had the biggest grin on his face, bringing up his cheekbones.
"I- I got looonely John. I couldn't- Pft- Hahaha. I couldn't help myself."
John just stared at him. Blankly. He couldn't believe it. After everything Sherlock knew about his sister. How much he hated that she drank so much. And now he comes home to THIS.
"You're piss drunk, Sherlock." He hesitated but his face softened. "I can't control what he does, and quite frankly he's not mine TO control," thought John, finally giving up.
He sat down in the chair across from Sherlock, still staring.
"Hey, you," shouted Sherlock, obnoxiously.
"What do you want now? A bucket perhaps? John retorted suggestively.
"No, I- come here," said Sherlock, stumbling over his words.
John got up slowly and walked three steps over to Sherlock and knelt down beside him. "Yes?"
"Closer," whispered Sherlock.
John crept a tad bit closer, their faces so near to each other that John could smell the Champagne on Sherlock's breathe.
He looked into the consulting detective's eyes as Sherlock lifted his finger and brought it to John's nose.
"Boooop," giggled Sherlock as he poked his companion's face.
John tried not to laugh, but he liked seeing Sherlock this happy, even if it was just the booze talking. Just then Sherlock reached his hand upward and grabbed onto John's jacket, pulling him closer to his body. They stared into each others eyes for a second more, John looking startled and confused and Sherlock looking as if he knew exactly what he was doing.
"What are you doi-" But John didn't get to finish.
Sherlock had pushed his mouth up against Watson's. Parting his lips and moving his head to the side. For a moment John didn't know what was happening. Was Sherlock... kissing him? Whatever was happening, it made his head spin and his stomach get butterflies. Sherlock pushed back abruptly.
"I thought-" John tried starting again.
"Shut up and follow me."
Sherlock attempted to get up once, twice, and on the third John lent his hand. Tripping over the table a couple times, Sherlock took John's hand and stumbled into the bedroom. Not bothering with the light, he laid John down on the bed, trying to unbutton his shirt.
"Sherlock, wait. What is happening?"
Sherlock's face contorted in thought, then he spoke. "I- I dunno. Just going with the flow really. But I can stop if you'd like."
John thought for a moment, then it all came clear on what he wanted.
"No," was all he said.
Sherlock's eyes glistened with pleasure, and he proceeded to unbutton John's shirt. This time John lifted up his head, raising his hands and cupping the sides of Sherlock's face.
"Sherlock... I- I love you."
And in full embrace, he kissed Sherlock on the forehead, nose and mouth. They twisted and turned, bodies mashing against each other. From afar all you would be able to see were their silhouettes moving in the night, but up close you would be able to feel the chemistry. Off went shirts, socks and pants until they were left in nothing but boxers. Sherlock kissed up John's body as his moans became more pronounced. He stopped at John's neck and whispered into his ear,
"By the way, I love you too."
John didn't have anytime to reply because once again, they were kissing. Full on passion as he scratched down Sherlock's back, making his spine arch in satisfaction. He ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and pulled down, making their bodies grind together. In mid-kiss Sherlock stopped and sat up.
"Wait, I think I'm going to be sick..." the wasted detective said.
"Oh- I'll- Hold on, I'll be right back then," replied John, a little worried. "It's just the alcohol, nothing to fret about," John tried to remind himself.
But he realized that now Sherlock was his to control. Was his to worry about. And that is was normal. He returned to the bedroom with a bucket and held it up for Sherlock. Rubbing his back, and keeping his hair out of the way, John was running over in his head what just happened. And what it meant. But he didn't care right now. All he could keep thinking was about kissing Sherlock, getting that close to his body. Feeling the heat of skin on skin, grinding together. After Sherlock was done, he set down the bucket, pulled the blanket over Sherlock's shaking body and kissed him on the forehead.
"Where are you going?" whispered Sherlock, weakly.
"Nowhere. I'll stay here if you'd like."
He looked at his companion in the eyes as Sherlock replied, "Yes, I'd like that. I'd like that a lot."