"I don't mind," he said, his voice sounding a touch too eager in his own ears, low and gravelly from the gulp of scotch he had just consumed. The contact made his shoulders rigid but his flatmate wasn't looking. Unnoticeable. Over-thinking? Yes. Obviously. His brow furrowed on its own accord as he watched John attempt to regain his balance, warm fingers wrapped firmly over his knee, lingering perhaps a bit too long. He swallowed the lump in his throat and took another sip, tearing his eyes away from the hand that unknowingly ignited something deep within him.
Flushed cheeks. John was definitely far from sober. Eyes heavily lidded. It was a surprise that they were both still awake. Sherlock shifted in his seat as John finally drew away his hand, which made him more aware of his own drunkenness.
Alcohol wasn't something he consumed often. It made him feel slow. Dizzy. It made his deductions inaccurate and sloppy, which was simply unacceptable. But here he was, somehow enjoying himself despite the embarrassingly sluggish speed at which his mind was working. Ugh, thirsty.
"I don't know who you are," he blurted suddenly. He bit back a smile and swallowed the fit of giggles that threatened to burst forth from his throat. "I don't know who you're supposed to be."
"You picked the name!" John shouted, the corners of his lips turned up in an exasperated smile. He brought both hands to his face and rubbed his eyes as he laughed to himself. "I can't believe you," he muttered under his breath, his high-pitched chuckle drawing another smile from the man across from him.
"I don't know, I thought it would come to me!" Sherlock exclaimed before taking another sip of scotch. It burned its way down his throat but he cared little about such sensations at this point in the evening. His belly was full of beer and liquor in so many varieties that he had lost track. Curse his childlike curiosity when faced with so many choices. Still thirsty.
"Madonna?" John asked after peeling the card from his forehead. It only made him laugh harder. "I can't believe you don't know who Madonna is. Granted, the whole bit with the Earth and the Sun…"
"Oh leave it," Sherlock whined, waving a hand in the air. "Anyway, I know who I'm supposed to be. It's you, obviously."
John nearly spit out his drink at that and proceeded to pinch the bridge of his nose. He leaned forward on his elbows and watched as the detective snatched the card from the top of his head and stared at it wide-eyed.
"Sherlock Holmes? Oh for fuck's sake John, I am absolutely as tall as I seem." He tossed the card to the floor and crossed his legs in a huff before taking yet another large gulp from his glass. He looked down his nose to find it near empty, so he finished it off in one go.
"Slow down there, don't you think we've had enough for now?" John asked, glancing at his own drink. Sherlock eyed the amber liquid for a moment as John swirled it around in his glass before sipping at it delicately.
Alcohol tolerance, John: moderate. Alcohol tolerance, Sherlock: abysmal at best. Intake: approximately 3015 milliliters beer at 5.4%, 105 milliliters… vodka? Tequila? When did we start drinking scotch?
"How many of those have you had?" Sherlock inquired, realizing he had been staring.
"Two," the man responded taking another small drink from the glass. "And you're going on at least four, so I'd take a minute," he added with a slur, raising his tumbler. Four?
"Right," Sherlock responded, clearing his throat. He carefully placed his glass on the floor and ruffled his hair a bit, suddenly all too aware of his questionable state.
"You okay there, mate?" his friend offered and he nodded quickly. He could feel John's glassy eyes boring into him and he timidly returned the gaze, but a smile crept over his face when their eyes met. Sherlock knew he was prone to rudeness and frigidity and was thankful that his friend - best friend - put up with it. The honesty in those eyes made him feel warm and he lowered his own to the ground. Maybe it's just the scotch.
"Thanks for taking me out tonight," John said, sipping at but still not finishing his drink. "I know we weren't out very late but it was still nice to unwind a bit. No crime scenes to chase, no clueing for… whatever, you know," he continued, scratching his head. His words were falling over each other.
"It was my pleasure," Sherlock replied entirely too quickly. His tongue darted out to wet his lips and his eyes trailed over John's hand as it tapped out a silent rhythm on his thigh.
"I could go for a cuppa but I don't think I'd be able to manage at the moment," John chuckled.
"I could try, how hard can it be?" the detective retorted playfully, but upon trying to stand up simply faltered forward in his chair. Yep, thoroughly pissed.
"Careful," John laughed as he grabbed hold of Sherlock's thigh, eliciting a very apparent yet very accidental gasp. "Sorry," he added suddenly, pulling his hand back at such high velocity that one would think he'd just scalded himself.
"No, it's… I'm fine, I just…" Sherlock stumbled, begging the words to just find your way out of my mouth already, fucking hell…
"It's okay, I shouldn't have grabbed you so hard, I-"
"I don't mind," Sherlock blurted out once more, embarrassment gripping him hard. What are you doing? "That's not what I meant… I'm sorry, I don't do this very often, I think I should just go to bed," he continued, desperately hoping he didn't sound as frantic as he felt.
"You don't have to go if you're not tired. It's fine, I'm pretty sloshed myself. I didn't mean to startle you, you don't have to go…"
Sherlock sat back in his seat and straightened his shirt before nodding halfheartedly.
"You didn't startle me," he muttered quietly, moving on to the creases in his pants.
"Then why did you gasp," John inquired, inching slightly closer.
"It was nothing. I don't know why I did it. I think it's the scotch," he replied, glaring at the glass on the floor. Ruddy alcohol. If only they had followed the measurements…
"Right, the scotch makes you do this," John said, grabbing Sherlock's knee without warning. Once again the detective jumped, though this time the sound he elicited was more like a hiss.
"See, that right there. What is that? You're Sherlock Holmes, you don't care about personal space. Hell, you went to Buckingham Palace in a sheet! Are you secretly ticklish?" Sherlock's eyes widened. Don't you fucking dare you bloody drunk.
John reached forward with both hands and latched on to the man's lean legs. He could feel the muscles contracting beneath his fingers and he chuckled, though the look on Sherlock's face was more of mortification than amusement.
"Perhaps don't do that," the detective breathed through his teeth, wincing as he struggled away from the touch.
"Alright out with it then, what've you suddenly got against people touching-"
"It's not people, John, it's you," he snapped. Breathe.
"Why? Is there something particularly off-putting about me, then?"
"Quite the opposite, actually," Sherlock replied, barely above a whisper. Stupid.
Whether it was the alarming rate at which the scenario played out or the ridiculous amount of alcohol they imbibed that caused John's reaction to be so delayed was unknown, but the silence that filled the room was a truly horrible thing to experience. Sherlock felt dizzy and the pain of regret throbbed in his chest as his friend slowly drew his hands away. The friction caused his fingers to twitch and he felt a fiery yet shameful sensation begin twisting in his abdomen.
"I feel a bit cloudy at the moment and I don't want to misinterpret anything," John said slowly before retrieving his glass and taking a hearty gulp, finally emptying its contents. Yes John, drink more. That will help you feel less cloudy. "Are you… Does this mean… I thought you were married to your work," he stammered, obviously tiptoeing around the question.
"It felt intimate, alright? And fine, you're right, it startled me. Are you satisfied?"
"Why would it feel intimate if you don't think there's anything between us?"
"There isn't anything between us."
"Yes, I know, but-"
"Dammit John, do I have to spell it out for you?" Sherlock was suddenly fuming and frustrated but simply couldn't stop himself. "It's obvious now that I cannot maintain the same amount of composure and clarity while under the influence and I severely misjudged the rate and volume at which I indulged so after this many errors already, I may as well go ahead and deduce this one for you. You excite me, John. You smile and you ramble and you laugh and I hate it when all of those other people do it but you aren't one of them. You're patient and you're clever and you're the only person that can make me act like a right idiot and my god it's quite warm in here. Is it warm in here? I feel uncomfortably-"
John's palm rested firmly against the top of Sherlock's thigh and he ceased to speak in an instant. Too bloody warm.
"Does this alarm you?" John murmured, cocking his head to the side.
"No," Sherlock whispered. A blatant lie.
"This?" he asked again, mirroring the action with his other hand. The detective, though having fought valiantly against it, could not contain his sigh. His head began swimming and a foreign sensation began to wash over him. His flatmate was picking him apart with two simple hands. He hadn't even moved them yet.
"You've proven your point," Sherlock breathed, the scotch having eradicated all ability to calm the fluctuations in his voice. It was painfully apparent that he was thoroughly smitten.
"Why didn't you say anything?" John asked, sweeping a thumb back and forth over the fabric of his friend's trousers. The movement earned him a ragged exhale and his lip turned up in a smirk, though Sherlock couldn't be bothered to notice.
"Well for one, you aren't gay," Sherlock managed to respond, eyes intently watching the delicate digits that clung to his legs. "I seem to recall you repeating that statement weekly at least." John chuckled. He had that right at least.
"I wish you weren't so bloody difficult to figure out, Sherlock. You're always doing such ridiculous things; how was I supposed to know?"
"You weren't," the detective replied as if it pained him.