Darkness. He was swimming in the constellations. All around him little tiny stars shone pink, blue, purple. Planets dancing around each other. He was yelling for Sherlock. He wanted to show him this. He wanted to show him how the planets moved, how beautiful they looked. Ahead of him a giant burning yellow fire appeared. It glowed brighter as he recognized it was the sun. It became brighter and brighter until he could no longer look at it.
He slowly became aware that he was not, in fact, in space. That he was lying on his back on something hard and uncomfortable. The sun was blinding him through his closed eyes as he tried to remember where, or even who he was.
John Watson. His name was John Watson. It must be morning. His neck and back were throbbing with pain. He couldn't remember where he was, but he didn't want to open his eyes either, because the sun was already aggravating his splitting headache.
He tried to move his arm and heard the clink of broken glass. That's when he realized the pinpricks of pain in the palms of his hands, which were embedded with tiny shards of glass. He was lying on the floor. And he was…naked?
His mind scrambled desperately. Trying to think through the haze and pain, he inhaled deeply, catching a strong scent of alcohol. That explained a lot. It also accounted for the feeling of being extremely hung-over.
He made an attempt to sit up, but became aware that something heavy was on his chest. Without opening his eyes, he reached down to shove the something off. He froze abruptly. Curled up next to him, arm draped over his torso, with his head nestled in the crook of his neck was Sherlock Holmes.
John felt Sherlock breathing against him, chest rising and falling steadily, his warm breath on his neck. He realized that the fingers of his left hand were entangled in Sherlock's hair.
Sherlock's skin was hot against John's in the cool, still air of the flat. John felt slightly alarmed. He tried to think of an explanation other than the obvious. There was no way…but it's not like he hadn't thought about it before…which he of course denied that he thought about at all. Sherlock shifted against John, drawing his right arm tighter around him.
Their skin was sticky against each other with dried sweat, cheap wine, and semen. John shut his eyes tighter, trying to bring back flashbacks of what happened last night.
"Damn what you think! I don't want your bloody opinion!" John was shouting.
"Listen. If we just talk through this like civil-"
But whatever his therapist was going to say was cut off by the loud slam of a door as John stormed out.
John was muttering angrily to himself as he left the building, slamming every door as hard as he could. He was not going to sit there and listen to some bloody idiot tell him about his life, much less prescribe him medication (which he didn't need) for anxiety (which he didn't have).
"Your new flatmate is obviously a source of anxiety for you, perhaps you should look for a new one." John scoffed, recalling what his therapist had said. "It's too much for you to handle."
But what the hell did a stranger know about his life? About what he could and couldn't handle? It was true that Sherlock could be extremely difficult to live with at times, especially when he got in his childish passive aggressive moods. But that's exactly why John couldn't leave him. He knew that Sherlock needed someone there, if only to put on a show for.
And besides, it certainly wasn't anything John couldn't handle.
He was still fuming about the nerve of his therapist when he walked up the steps of 221B Baker Street.
He opened the door of the flat and threw his set of keys down on the table with more force than was necessary. He walked into the living room and found Sherlock sitting on the couch in his pajamas with his feet drawn up. He made an obvious show of not looking at John as he entered.
"Just perfect," thought John. "I come home and have to take care of a child."
John went to sit down next to Sherlock on the couch. Sherlock glared at John and scrunched up on the opposite end.
"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock, grow up."
Without a word Sherlock stood up, and with a flare of childish hostility, indignantly strode out of the room.
After a few moments of sitting in silence by himself, John got up to go into the kitchen for a cup of tea to calm down.
Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table with a needle in his arm.
"Fucking hell, Sherlock."
"What, John?" Sherlock snapped.
"Oh don't play stupid," John retorted cynically.
Sherlock glared angrily back at him. "Since when is what I do any of your business?"
"Sherlock I swear to God. I've fucking had it with you and your stupid immature games."
Sherlock's lip twitched on the word "stupid".
It didn't go unnoticed by John, who played it to his advantage.
"The great Sherlock Holmes, so perceptive, so brilliant," he said mockingly, " and so incredibly ignorant. You're so obsessed with yourself that you become completely oblivious to how it affects the people around you. You pride yourself on being so observant, yet you can't see even see yourself. Why can't you just grow up?"
Even in his most irritable moods, Sherlock never really lost control of his temper. He tended to be more passive aggressive in his tantrums, ignoring John for days on end, skulking around in his pajamas, refusing to do anything, but John had clearly struck a chord this time, crossing the line.
For a moment Sherlock just stood there, paralyzed with shock and anger. People had called him a freak before, a psychopath, but never stupid. No one had dared.
Sherlock picked up a plate off the counter and flung it at John.
John ducked just in time as the plate shattered against the wall behind him.
"Very good, Sherlock. Let's throw things like we're five years-"
The rest of John's sentence was interrupted as Sherlock's fist collided with his jaw.
John staggered back a little. His military training kicking in, he swiftly grabbed Sherlock's arm and pinned it against his back, slamming him down on the floor.
John hadn't realized what he was doing until Sherlock was pinned beneath him, struggling in vain. It was an automatic response to a physical attack; he was a soldier and it was what he was trained to do. But this wasn't the army and Sherlock wasn't an enemy. He let Sherlock go and backed off. He turned to grab his keys and headed for the door, still breathing hard.
"Don't bother coming back," Sherlock called bitterly after him.
A couple hours later John was standing on Sarah's front steps. She was crying and shoving John out the door.
"Please John, just leave," she sobbed.
Just a few minutes ago they were sitting on her couch having drinks. John wasn't entirely sure what he did wrong, but then again he wasn't entirely sober.
"I don't think we should see each other anymore," she said, her voice thick with tears.
"But, I don't under-"
"Yes you do, John. You just won't admit it to yourself. The way you look at him – that's the way you should be looking at me. And the way you talk about him. John it's just so obvious. Don't be daft."
"You don't know what you're talking about," he slurred.
"I can see it your eyes. The way they follow him everywhere. I can see it in how you constantly complain about him, but you get so defensive whenever someone else tries to say the same thing. John, we can't be together when you're in love with him."
"No. No," he said shaking his head. "I love you, Sarah."
"Don't make this harder than it has to be. We can talk about this more when you're not completely wasted."
"I'm- I'm not drunk," he slurred. He stepped closer, putting his arms around her.
"Stop it, John. Just go home. To him."
He didn't know how he managed to find his way back to 221B, but he soon found himself drunkenly staggering up the steps into the flat.
After a few minutes of fumbling with his keys, he finally got the door unlocked, practically falling through the doorway.
It was late, probably half past three in the morning, but he knew Sherlock would be awake.
He moved his hands along the wall to avoid falling over as he walked down the dark hallway. He rounded the corner, stumbling into the living room.
Sherlock was sitting in his chair with a half empty bottle of wine. He looked up at John, annoyed. He was obviously still angry with John, and being drunk certainly wasn't going to help. Sherlock didn't usually drink, but on the rare occasions he did, John found that it just made him even more irritable than usual.
"What? Did Sarah throw you out? She didn't want to deal with hearing poor John Watson go on about his meaningless, never-ending problems?" he sneered.
"Who the hell do you think you are?"
"No, the question is, who the hell do you think you are? You act like you can read me when you can't even comprehend the simplest things that go on in my mind. You are nothing. The only reason I keep you around is because I pity you. It makes you feel like you're special, following me around acting like I need you. I can function perfectly without you, but you would be nothing with me," he scoffed getting to his feet.
John was furious. Furious because it was the truth. He did need Sherlock. He hated to think of what his life would be had he never met him. Not only because it gave him a sense of purpose, running around London solving murder cases, but because Sarah was right. He loved him. He was in love with Sherlock Holmes. And he was quite sure that Sherlock had no idea, much less felt the same way.
He stood there for a moment, torn between anger and heartbreak. He decided that anger was much easier to deal with.
John locked eyes with Sherlock. He lunged forward to aim a punch at him, but Sherlock agilely stepped to the side. He was clearly wasn't as drunk as John was.
John steadied himself against the chair and turned around, only just in time to see Sherlock standing behind him ready to hit him again.
"Thought you would have learned your lesson from earlier," John said mockingly as he easily grabbed Sherlock's arms and slammed him hard against the wall.
Sherlock coughed and tried to regain his breath, pinned against the wall under John's unrelenting grip.
"Let me go," he said quietly, glaring at John, frustrated at how powerless he felt.
"Never."
As the word came out, there was something other than anger in his voice, like determination.
Standing there with Sherlock pinned under his grip for the second time that day, John thought of how much he hated Sherlock. How he hated that it was so easy to have Sherlock in his grip, yet it was impossible. He was right here, yet he was so far away.
Suddenly he didn't care if it ruined everything. He just needed Sherlock to know. He needed Sherlock to know that he loved him. That he couldn't deal with the pain of being this close to him without being able to call Sherlock his any longer. Without thinking and before he could regret it, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock's.
Sparks seemed to ignite between their lips and the air crackled with dangerous electricity. John thought he felt Sherlock begin part his lips, only to instead pull away, but only after what seemed like an eternity.
"John, what-" Sherlock sputtered taken aback for perhaps the first time in his life, unable to calculate what had just happened.
"Shut up you bloody idiot," John murmured, pressing his lips back to Sherlock's.
Before he knew what was happening, Sherlock was kissing him back, his mouth parting hesitantly at first.
John kissed him slowly, tasting the alcohol on his tongue, apprehensively wondering how far Sherlock was willing to let this go. Their breath mixed together with a blazing heat.
Then he felt Sherlock's fingernails digging sharply into his back, grasping with a desperate need and uninhibited passion. Sherlock's hands started clawing at his jumper, pulling it off.
John didn't have time to be surprised at Sherlock's reaction before he was suddenly the one pressed up against the wall, with Sherlock on his knees undoing his belt.
John wasn't prepared at all for the feeling of Sherlock's hands on him, or when he starting running his tongue along his already hard cock. He shivered uncontrollably as a soft moan escaped his lips.
He closed his eyes and groaned desperately at the sensation of Sherlock's hot, wet mouth around his cock. His hands were entangled in Sherlock's hair, twisting it in ecstasy as he breathed his name over and over with pleasure.
"Sherlock," John said pulling him to his feet. "I love you. I love you," he murmured into his ear, pulling him close. "What I said earlier, I'm sorry. I just love you."
"Shut up," Sherlock said, his hand stroking John's cock.
"Sherlock I don't want you to feel like- I mean if you don't want to- can you just tell me what you're thinking?"
"Is this not obvious?" he growled with lust.
John smirked. Sherlock was never one to articulate his emotions. But he needed to hear him say it. He needed it to be real.
"Say it then."
"God, just shut up, John."
"I need to hear you say it, Sherlock. Just three words."
Sherlock yelled in frustration. "I don't know why you have to make this so fucking difficult." He turned around and started walking away angrily. "Forget this ever happened."
"It shouldn't have to be difficult," John yelled at his back.
"Just stop talking," he said stomping out of the room.
John was not going to let Sherlock walk away from this now. He shoved him drunkenly into the end table, knocking them both to the ground as the wine bottle shattered beneath them. Both of them drenched with wine, John scrambled on top of him.
"Say it," he said blinking through the wine dripping into eyes.
"Fuck you."
"Not until you say it," John said teasingly.
"I fucking hate you."
"Why do you have to be so stubborn? …And why do I love you for it?" John breathed with lust, unable to keep up this game anymore as he kissed Sherlock's neck aggressively, nipping at his porcelain skin.
He traced the outline of Sherlock's jaw with his tongue, making him tremble delicately, then kissed him deeply, their tongues dancing with each other.
Feeling Sherlock breathing hard beneath him, the way his chest rose and fell rapidly and heavy, was enough to drive him insane with lust. He kissed his body passionately, his shaking hands undoing his belt.
He paused to trace the zipper of Sherlock's pants temptingly with his fingers, making him shiver with desire. He turned his hand so that his palm was pressing against the outline of his hard cock, his hands somehow knowing just where to touch to make him enticingly shudder with pleasure.
Sherlock moaned at the contact, causing John to smirk; he had him right where he wanted him.
"Say it, Sherlock."
Sherlock just moaned, his hips thrusting against John's hand, begging for more contact.
"Not until you say it," John said removing his hand and pinning Sherlock's arms against the ground.
Sherlock swore in frustration.
"I know you want this as much as I do. There are only three words standing in the way."
Sherlock struggled, uttering a desperate and distracted "please."
John knew he wasn't strong enough to keep up this bluff for long. He struggled vainly to keep his mind focused. He knew that Sherlock was at his weakest right now, drunk and desperate, and if he didn't get him voice his feelings now then he probably never would.
It was taking all of his will power to not rip off Sherlock's clothes, which were clinging to his skin, damp with sweat and cheap wine. He was getting extremely frustrated with how stubborn Sherlock was being. He could see the same frustration and anger building in Sherlock.
"Fine! I fucking love you!" Sherlock yelled.
John smiled, his mouth on Sherlock's lips," And I fucking hate you for it."
He reached down and unzipped Sherlock's pants, making him moan as he slowly rubbed his thumb over the head of his hard cock, already wet with pre-cum.
He ran his tongue slowly along the length of it, then paused to suck gently on the tip, causing Sherlock to shudder. He began to lower his mouth down, feeling his cock hit the back of his throat. Sherlock's feet flexed in pleasure, his fingers scraping against the hard floor.
"John," he gasped as he shut his eyes tightly, "I'm going to-"
"Not yet," John taunted with a whisper, leaving Sherlock moaning with frustration and breathing heavily.
He licked Sherlock's neck as his hand enclosed around both of their cocks. The feeling of Sherlock's cock against his drove him insane as he bit down on Sherlock's neck in agonizing pleasure.
Their hips were grinding hard against each other, both of them lost in mind numbing ecstasy.
The palms of John's hands ground painfully into the broken glass on the floor making them bleed, but he barely noticed.
Sherlock's hips were thrusting forcefully into John's hand as he groaned. John could see him struggling desperately to regain control.
"I can't-" he moaned. "Oh f-fuck."
Sherlock arched his back in ecstasy as a deep animalistic moan escaped his lips. John pulled him close, feeling Sherlock's body shaking with pleasure; his face was a beautiful combination of blissful agony and painful pleasure as the orgasm swept through his entire body.
He felt the warm semen sticky between their bodies, and the spasms of Sherlock's body as he groaned uncontrollably. John's vision blurred as he approached his own orgasm.
"Sherlock," he gasped, gritting his teeth.
He felt Sherlock's arms around him and in his hair as he lost control, murmuring "I love you, I love you," repeatedly into Sherlock's neck. His words slurred into a deep moan and lights danced behind his eyes as the powerful orgasm rippled through his body, so intense it was almost painful.
His ears were ringing, but there was no mistaking Sherlock's warm mouth moving softly against his ear as he breathed, "I love you," barely audible.
Sherlock pressed his lips softly into John's neck as he collapsed onto him.
John tilted Sherlock's chin toward him and kissed him gently, feeling him smile. He wrapped his arms protectively around him as Sherlock rested his head on his chest.
John hadn't realized he was holding his breath as he remembered everything that happened last night. He exhaled shakily in the cool, silent air.
He felt Sherlock shift and sit up. John pretended to be asleep and held his breath, waiting for Sherlock's reaction.
He heard him stand up and walk away, his heart sinking as he wondered if he had been Sherlock's drunken mistake.
He heard he shower start and he just lay there on the floor, hating himself because everything was fucked now.
Then Sherlock yelled from the next room, "John, I know you're awake. Are you going to join me, or not?"
It was hard to keep the smile out of his voice as he responded, "Oh God, yes."