Prompt: I'd love to see one where Sherlock and John have a drinking contest and it eventually leads to something more (feeding-wise; though relationship-wise would be okay too)

It had started with a case, as most things in the lives of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson seemed to. This case had been wrapped up rather quickly though it all was very strange. The victim had been found dead in a student house, the scene set to make it all look like an accident. Sherlock couldn't think what would have killed the petite victim without the other party goers noticing. The detective had gleefully started listing rare poisons before John cut in with a much more boring solution: alcohol poisoning. Sherlock had sniffed, clearly disappointed with people in general. Though he seemed to doubt that the victim, though petite and underweight, could possibly have been killed without drinking more than her stomach could realistically hold. John had then found the need to point out that he was a doctor and that he knew the factors that came into play when differentiating tolerances in people. Sherlock had rolled his eyes and insisted it was impossible. Naturally the two bickered all the way home. The term 'light-weight' was tossed around quite a lot. Tempers flared. Somehow the two decided that a drinking contest was the only way this matter could be settled.

"Beer or hard liquor?" John asked as the thumped both varieties down on the coffee table.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. He preferred something along the sweeter spectrum. "Does the type really matter? I would have bought wine had I known this was your idea of-"

"Yeah, it matters," said John flatly, sitting down on the sofa beside his flatmate, "You know that."

"Let's start with the bourbon then. I imagine the taste will matter less as the evening goes on," said Sherlock, leaning back and looking at the bottles moodily, "And of course, once I prove my point..."

"Yeah, yeah," said John, pouring two generous glasses and making sure they were perfectly even before handing one over, "Cheers."

"Really we ought to be using graduated cylinders to ensure an even testing base," said Sherlock sniffily before taking his first sip.

"Shut up," was John's only reply.

The first glass went down without a hitch, as did the second, by the third, Sherlock noted a slight flush creeping up his blogger's neck as he tipped back his glass. It was starting to affect them both, the amount released into their bloodstream suddenly quite potent. Sherlock reached down to scrawl a little tally mark on his note pad as he drained his glass again. It seemed to require quite a lot of concentration. Boring.

"John," said Sherlock, nudging the man's arm with his glass, "Empty."

There was a splash of liquid and his glass was filled again.

"Oi... careful," Sherlock slurred, licking the droplets from his hand.

"Shtop moving so much then," answered John grumpily, grabbing a hold of Sherlock's wrist and swaying as he poured him another drink. Then he let him go and carefully poured the last of it into his own. He groaned and sat back, swirling his glass a bit before drinking it, his back arched and pushing his tummy into the air. Sherlock poked it, causing John to sputter and nearly choke.

"Oi!"

"Sssorry."

They drank in silence. Then they moved on to the beer.

"This w's a bad idea," John murmured. Then he giggled and flopped against the sofa's armrest.

"wash yur idea," Sherlock mumbled, grimacing at the bottle. He tipped it back again regardless.

"Wassit?"

Sherlock nodded gravely.

"Well fuck..." said John mildly, drinking more thoughtfully.

Sherlock broke into a fit of the giggles. John gave him a dopey smile.

"What izzit? Wha'so funny?" he asked. Sherlock just shook his head, still laughing, as he flopped sideways onto the sofa, his face nearly landing in John's lap.

"Ooh," the drunk detective grunted, swaying on unstable arms as he pushed himself up again. He looked down at his stomach. "Mm, mm all... sloshy."

Sherlock laid a hand on his stomach, hiccuping and falling back against the sofa.

"I mus be winning," Sherlock noted happily, beaming at his slim stomach that had rounded out a bit from under his ribcage and giving it a poke.

"Wha? No!" John said firmly, trying to find Sherlock's notes. They seemed to have disappeared, "We've had the same!"

"Then why's my stomach bigger 'n yours?" Sherlock asked haughtily.

"It's not," John grumbled, lifting up his jumper to expose his middle which was also becoming quite bloated from the barrage of drinks, "See?"

Sherlock looked, his lips forming a pout as he reached out to give John's softer stomach a prod near the navel.

"Ss'not fair," Sherlock insisted, grabbing a bit of the soft pudge there and shaking it, "You started with more!"

"Ger'off," John retorted, "Shtop that..." He rubbed his poor abused belly pooch.

"Hmmph," said Sherlock, quite annoyed that his toy had been taken from him. He rubbed his own belly instead, oddly disappointed by the lack of soft flesh. Then he was struck by a marvelous idea.

"I'll be righ' back," he said, getting to his feet with some effort and wobbling to the kitchen. John watched him go suspiciously, still guarding his belly. He gave it a little pat and smiled at the noise that made. He drummed against it lightly.

Sherlock returned with his arms full of biscuit boxes and flopped back on the sofa. He burped and took a moment to right himself, then he smirked and pulled the top off one of the boxes before tucking in.

John stared and ventured to ask," Wha're you doing, Sh'lock?"

"Eating," Sherlock responded, his cheeks bulging with chocolate hobnobs. He swallowed and added, "Mm gonna win. My belly's going to be biggest. S'too small now." He grunted and shoved more of the crumbly sweets into his mouth.

"But that's not..." began John. Then he tried to recall what they were actually doing, "We... we were drinking..."

"An'now I'm eating," said Sherlock, sighing quite happily as he flooded his system with more sugar, "An mm gonna win."

"Like hell you are," snarled John, snatching one of the boxes and shoving his hand inside before cramming his own mouth full. This game was more fun.

Sherlock glared at his biscuit-stealing flatmate, but couldn't afford to give up precious chewing time. His belly gurgled grumpily. Sherlock rubbed it, shifting away from his tightening waistband. All his clothes were so tight. Why was that? Who wanted to feel so... oh. Actually no. Tight shirts were good. He smiled down at his belly and gave it a few pats, delighting in the dull smacking sound. He looked lazily over at John, smiling even wider as he watched the doctor reach down to unbutton his jeans.

"Ah, tha's better, Now I'm gonna win," John declared, smirking triumphantly and emptying another box before tossing it aside. He rubbed at his belly, feeling how round and smooth the shape was. He hummed contentedly as he rubbed it. But he could still eat more. He stood and shuffled to the kitchen. He fetched some left over takeaway boxes from the refrigerator and popped it in the microwave, listening to the grease beginning to pop and sizzle again. It made his mouth water.

When he brought it back out, Sherlock stole his eggroll. He tried to snatch it back, but it was already sucked deeply within those plump cupid's bow lips.

"Fine you can have it," said John, smiling as Sherlock giggled. Then John proceeded to stuff himself, washing mouthfuls down with more beer. Sherlock whined, leaning into John's side.

"Mm hungry too, John," he complained, butting his head against the man's shoulder.

Then miraculously there was a forkful of sweet and sour pork in front of his mouth. Sherlock hummed indulgently and closed his lips over the tines, dragging the food off and eating it happily. He opened his mouth again.

"More John."

John chuckled and complied, feeding Sherlock tenderly bite by bite. He was cute when he sighed like that, closed his eyes. John stole a few bites for himself as well, but most seemed to end up in Sherlock's mouth once he began humming and moaning and making other soft little noises after each bite.

Then the plate was empty. John felt generously overfull. Sherlock flopped back with a moan, his belly gurgling, pale over stretched skin showing through his buttons, the top of the arch flushing.

"Oooh... oh, John," he gasped, clutching his aching middle as he laid flat on his back, the bulge arching obscenely from his thin frame. He belched and whimpered.

"Hey... hey s'okay," John replied, feeling warmth curl in his own round belly where it poked out from under his jumper, "M' a doctor."

He carefully reached down under Sherlock's belly and undid the button and zip. Sherlock groaned softly again, his belly expanding and contracting minutely. There was no more room.

"Did I win?" Sherlock mumbled, long thin fingers probing and rubbing at the great ball of overstuffed stomach fighting against his shirt.

"Yeah... okay you do," John conceded, grinning and reaching over to rub at Sherlock's tummy as well. It just looked so... round and fat and wonderful.

Sherlock shifted with a grunt, then smiled and undid a few buttons over his pale balloon of a belly.

"More John," he huffed, the white over stretched skin bared to his doctor, his navel shallow and stretched tight. John rubbed rough fingers over it in awe. Then bent his lips to it and kissed it before letting out a gust of air in a rude "Prrrrrt!" noise.

Sherlock froze, going rigid under John. Then they both dissolved in a fresh bout of giggles. John kept rubbing at that delightful tum and soon Sherlock was moaning and sighing again.

A few moments later, the two managed to heave themselves to their feet and then toddle to Sherlock's bedroom. They collapsed there, John too lazy to crawl up the steps to his own bed. Still, neither really minded. It was all fine. Neither man had another thought before their heavy full bellies tugged them off to sleep.