Wishing he could forget the awfully ended dinner with his wife and child, John did the first thing that usually crossed his mind.
Visit Sherlock.
The key was easily poked in the keyhole, and easily turned as if by immediate memory, and he was inside. The flat was lit by a lamp and Sherlock's bedroom John noticed, making his way to the fridge. He wasn't necessarily hungry, nor did he want to stare at someone's teeth in a vaccum sealed bag, but he was hopeful for some release.
Alcoholic release.
"I thought you were a murderer to be honest." Sherlock stood in the hall, just to John's left as he closed the fridge door. A hedgecutter was opened and armed in his veiny hands. "Pity if I had cut your head off." He tosses them with an echoed 'clunk'.
Truthfully, John wasn't jarred. This wasn't technically the first time Sherlock's mistaken him for a criminal or Mycroft. "Yeah, speaking of pity. Do you have that bottle of whiskey from way way back?" John noted Sherlock's unnatural choice of attire. For him, that is. With his hair wet, John assumes he just stepped from the shower, and with only a robe and slightly soaked pajama bottoms, John assumes he interrupted that shower by 'breaking' in.
"If you drink your whiskey can I smoke a cigarette?" Sherlock asks the questions as if he's done something wrong, like a child begging for an extra piece of candy. John laughs a bit, at first, because he doesn't live at 221B anymore to enforce the 'no smoking' ban invisibly plastered on Sherlock's back.
Yet, John quickly replies, "No." Like a cruel joke.
"You- You don't do good with smoking things, remember? You have a history to over do it apparently." John leaves Sherlock pathetic gaping mouth to dig glasses from the cupboard. A padding of feet follows closely behind him as he does.
"And your family has a history of alcoholism." The words are calm, monotone in John's left ear. He shudders the chill that proceeds.
"Look. I've had a rough night with Mary, and i'm not exactly-" John tries digging for the hidden alcohol, but Sherlock eyes from his peripheral vision catch him. "Not exactly, what John? Rough night? Wife not happy with you? Oh, I understand. I've had a rough week. Stayed two nights in someones basement because they worked for a man named Sebatian Moran! But that can't compete to a controlling wife." Sarcasm, his voiced laced with it.
John's face drops, and he slides the glasses back in the cupboard. "Fine, I won't drink and you won't smoke." John could easily leave, go to a bar. But he knows he's staying.
"Fine." Sherlock's hands go flying to the cupboard once again, pulling out one glass. He then kneels to the bottom cabinet and pulls out the hiding whiskey bottle. "I won't smoke and you won't drink." He pours himself a glass.
John's eye ticks in anger. Watches the man fill the glass halfway and swallow it in one nice loud gulp.
"You're fucking me."
"I'm following your orders, Captain."
They stare. John's hand doing it's little reflexive thing, and Sherlock's mouth dancing a smile. It takes a good minute before John blinks away, walking backwards and into the other room. He's searching for something, grabbing something, lighting something out of Sherlock's sight.
"John, my stache!"
"Oh it's not like it's a big secret you keep your cigarettes in that old shitty persian slipper." John talks around the item in his mouth, a bit muffled until he drags one deep breath, takes it from his mouth, and expells a cloud of smoke.
"Not fair, John. Cigarettes are addicting to the nose as well, whiskey just tastes good." Sherlock walked into the line of smoke, falling into it until his feet stammered straight again.
"You clearly started this." Making a good point in his own head, John blew another breath that swallowed around Sherlock.
"Mm- uh." Sherlock tries to think, "Playing with addictions can lead both parties to become over sensitive, aggressiveness, and begging." That wasn't even a scientific fact, he just wanted John to know things would get very interesting if he didn't get a puff.
"I want my drink." John says lowly, backing Sherlock up to the counter. "I'm tired of Mary, and diapers, and mundane fucking tasks. If you don't give me what I want, there will be consequence."
Eyes light up, then dim again with a realization. It's just a cruel joke. Sherlock doesn't back away though, he likes whatever chance he gets. "So, I let you feed your own addiction, then you just leave without another word?" He chanced it, Sherlock slipped whatever innuendo he hoped John was implying.
The counter dug into John's hand, the hand circling Sherlock, pinning him. "We both get to feed our addiction, right? Just this once, and we can forget it ever happened. No traces of ash or smell of alcohol left when we're done, eh?"
Maybe John wasn't just hankering for a drink.
"There's a child and woman back at your home, John, I remind you. If they smelled... whiskey- it would-" Sherlock leaned into John's attempt to hover, eyes flicking from each other to lips.
"-There will be no whiskey to smell." Tentatively, John holds the cig between two fingers, freeing his mouth to tilt and latch on the other's left ear. If only Sherlock could genuinely describe the guilt and years of waiting that poured from that first soft grunt, then maybe it would change how this looked.
John pulls on the lobe, teeth and tongue snacking on the flesh and releasing it silently, allowing that godly mouth to hover of Sherlock's. Blood was eagerly thrumming in all directions, sweat beading at Sherlock's forehead. John was at his play, waiting for his move.
Sherlock's first move, though? A gentle, warm hand to cup John's groin as he placed his closed mouth ontop fo the other's. Without hesitation, John opens his mouth, causing a chain reaction in Sherlock's. John got to taste the whiskey in the other's mouth, and vice versa, Sherlock got his smoke. It made whatever they were doing, better.
Diving his head, Sherlock licks in, groping one hand on his bulge and the other wishfully on his cheek. If he wasn't so lost in what John's own hands were chasing for, he would've found time to rub his ear on his shoulder, the tickle of spit lingering.
"You said- Mmh, Sherlock, you said there would be begging?" John strained his head away, halfway looking down at his hands pulling on the other's zip and button. Sherlock's head drops too, wondering when John will snap and stop this. But no, he keeps pulling on the confines, slowly revealing the most delicate part he can offer his John.
"I-I don't- Not sure what, uhm, to beg for." Dirty talk, not a skill, not right now, not with what is firing in his head. John doesn't stop though, no, his eyes never stop, his mouth never stops connecting to skin and lips. His hands begin touching, now, pumping with nervous hands on Sherlock's prick. "No, you're right. I'd rather be the one."
One quick, chaste peck and John is on his knees before Sherlock can blink correctly.
"Please, let me taste you." He's looking up, one hand still on Sherlock, the other undoing his button-up's tedious buttons. Something in Sherlock's mind finds this extremely sexy, and it worries him. John has done this before. John has, he has been with a man. It's impossibly true. How? Why? Who?
...Oh.
"Sholto." Sherlock whispers, more to himself than anything, but it grabs John's attention.
"What was that?" He continues to strain Sherlock's cock. But Sherlock is breaking, the idea of him with someone else when this should be their time ruins everything.
Being with Mary is one thing, because it's expected of him. But Sholto? A man? John being with a man when he denies his attraction to men? It's special.
"Stop. We should stop." Quickly, Sherlock takes John's hand away and replaces his own beneath his arms, standing him up. In such a ferver he can muster, he adjusts his dick back in his pants and goes to delicately and silently button up John's shirt.
"Sherlock, what did- I'm sorry I thought-" John doesn't deny Sherlock's help, "You don't do this, I know, but I pushed, and..." Sherlock, with a strength he tried to find, found his eyes, "John, you did nothing wrong. I knew you were in a- committed relationship, but I teased you anyway. Mary is at home, holding a child that is yours and well, and absolutely chubby. You should actually feed that child modestly, unless you would like it to roll before crawl."
John smiles, chuckles low, and Sherlock's hands fall.
"The kid isn't mine, actually."
The genius looks up, more shocked at the lack of shock John is showing.
"That's how I justified all this, in my head. If I had an assassin wife, and fathered a child that wasn't mine, maybe I could have one little moment with the man I should have stayed with."
John's hands now go, lovingly, to properly redress Holmes and his hair.
Sherlock leans slightly to it, "I'm not lying when I say I detect we are addicted to one another. But, I need to know. If I never faked my death, and Mary never came along, would you have made a move?"
John gives up on his hair, and goes into wrap his arms around the other's slender body, head resting on his chest. "No. Because I had fears that you didn't feel the same, and if I did tell you, we'd be awkwardly living together and solving crimes. Because we're not together anymore, I felt a little more free to tell you."
Sherlock feels worse than before. He feels worse than going after John. He wishes they had this conversation afterward.
"John, I stopped us because I can't think of you with another man."
"What." John leans back.
"Sholto."
"Sholto? My commander from the army, he stopped you?" John knitted his brows.
"Jealousy, John Watson, I was very envious of what you had."
John's head goes back to his chest. "You better be fucking jealous, think of how I felt when a bloke named Victor Trevor rung me up looking for you. Said he was your ex and I hung up on him."
Laughing, Sherlock parts the hug, "Go back to Mary. I'll get you out of shopping next week with a case if you're lucky."