You know you gotta help me out, yeah–
don't you leave me in the back burner.
John could smell the cigarettes before he was inside. The bitterness floated under the door, the scent making the doctor cringe. He opened the door slowly, listening to the clink of a glass against a bottle. Sherlock sat on the couch, poised, even though the tall bottle was half empty. There were a few cigarette butts in the ashtray by his laptop.
He leaned back, glass against his lips as his gaze met John's. Sighing, he turned away from Sherlock and began to put away the groceries. He felt Sherlock before he saw him– his presence sending tingles up John's spine.
"What is it?" John asked, turning around and facing Sherlock.
Sherlock braced himself against the wall, just to make sure that he wouldn't fall forward onto John, and smiled. His grin shocked John, but not as much as when the dark haired man reached out, fingertips tracing the lines in his face. John swallowed hard, tried to quiet his heart.
"What, then?" he whispered.
"You've had a bad night," Sherlock mused, hand dropping from his face.
"Oh, and I suppose you got that from the mud on my shoes, or the way my hair is parted, right?"
Taking a wobbly step forward, Sherlock reached around John to place his long, pale fingers on his neck– John shivered, leaning into Sherlock's angular form.
"No," Sherlock breathed. "You're frowning."
John breathed in the booze and nicotine that made an aura around Sherlock.
"And I suppose you had a bad one, too, yeah?" John said, irritation flaring up around Sherlock's cool fingers.
The force in which Sherlock kissed him came as a surprise to him. John stumbled, back against the wall, and gasped for breath when they broke apart. In that moment, Sherlock was dark, like he could have hell bleed out from his deep eyes. His lips felt bruised and Sherlock leaned his head against the wall beside John's ear, breathing low. John could hear him nodding into the wall. His hair smelled damp, and his skin felt like a mix of sorrow and bitterness beneath John's palms.
"Lay with me?" Sherlock slurred, fingers looping around John's sleeve.
"Yeah," John said softly, leaning into his touch. "Sure."
