The front door slams shut. Sherlock, resting with his back against the window frame, counts the seconds before he hears the dull thud of John's boots on the stairs. Ten seconds, so he's drunk; takes a bit longer to secure the deadbolt on the back of the door with unsteady fingers. A pause halfway up the stairs - grabbing the rail to keep upright. Five, four, three, two, one, "Hellooooooooo Shhhhhhellock!"
"Hello, John." Sherlock looks away from the smiley face still adoring their living room wall with a raised eyebrow at his friend. "Four - wait, no - five pints of cider, two whiskeys, and some mystery drink that Mike Stamford made you try as a dare. Yes?"
John burps, loudly and freely. "Probably, Sherlock. Probably." Leaning with one hand against the doorframe, he wobbles slightly as he unsuccessfully tries to push his left boot off with the other foot. Shaking his head slowly at his feet, he looks to Sherlock and accuses, "did you glue these to my feet? Why would you do that?"
"Why indeed, John. Why indeed. Might be easier if you sit down, perhaps?" And with a point of a finger towards the red armchair as extra encouragement, John tramps across the room and flops down into the familiar chair. And doesn't take his boots off.
John's eyelids start to droop. Sherlock rolls his eyes and walks towards him, picking out a path between the piles of discarded notepaper and empty teacups on the carpet. "Bed, John," he advises, but his flatmate is pretending to be asleep. "I can't pick you up, John, and what with your shoulder, you're going to regret sleeping in that position when you wake up tomorrow. Bed."
One eye peeps open and a grumpy pout appears on John's face. "But it's upstaaaaaairs..." he whines. "Too far. Tired, Sherlock."
"Alright, okay. Can you at least stand up? Here." Sherlock extends a hand and pulls John out of the chair, a bit harder than he thought he'd need to - John's drunken lethargy making him a bit of a dead weight. John crashes into him, nearly headbutting his chin. "Oh, helloagain, Sherlock."
"You can sleep in my room. Tonight. Do not touch anything. I will sleep on the sofa. Come on, I'll walk you there, because you'll knock something over if I leave you to your own devices. Stop. Prodding. My. Chest. John."
John smirks. "Sorry, but. Sorry Sherlock. It's. It's a very firm chest. Tight shirt. You always wear tight shirts. Why?" Without waiting for an answer, he lurches forward and trips over a pile of discarded books on the floor, nearly but not quite landing flat on his front. The arm of the chair breaks most of his fall. "Oops."
John shuffles forward, trying to shrug off his jacket as he walks towards the kitchen, as a bypass to Sherlock's room. Sherlock rushes forward to make sure he doesn't knock the table flying, and also to help John with the arms of his jacket - he's wiggling both arms behind his back to shake the damn thing off, and it'll take forever at this rate. "Right, you. Jacket's off. Forward march, soldier. Bedtime."
Sitting on the edge of the bed, as Sherlock roots through the wardrobe for his blue dressing gown, John starts to complain again. "Boots, Sherllockk. Did you glue?" Search abandoned, he turns to his friend. "No, I did not glue your boots to your feet. Do you need a hand with them?" John gives a slow, drunken nod. "Hmm." Burp. "Please."
"Give me your foot, then." John extends his leg, and Sherlock grabs hold. The boot comes off easily, and he notices that his friend wears particularly threadbare socks. Clearly someone without a meticulous index, he thinks. "Next foot." This shoe proves a little trickier; his left foot clearly slightly larger than the right, and an impatient shopper such as John must have only tried on the right hand shoe in the shop. "John, I'm going to pull, try and pull your foot in the opposite direction. One, two.."
John yanks his leg, Sherlock still holding his foot, on the count of two. Sherlock was attempting to count to three, and topples forward, flattening John to the mattress. "Oh, hello helloagain, Sherlock," John grins. Sherlock places his hands either side of John's head, in an effort to push himself to an upright position again. "That's the third time you've said hello to me. You're drunk. Take your other boot off yourself, and go to sleep, John."
Sherlock's weight shifts on top of John as he tries to get up, and their hips grind together slightly with the movement. John groans, and with deceptively quick reflexes for someone who has definitely had a few drinks too many, a hand shoots out to grab Sherlock's wrist. "Do that again."
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "John, you're drunk. You'll regret this in the morning. Sleep." The hand around his slender wrist tightens. "Don't care. Want it now. Do it again. Please, Sherlock," the last two words almost a hiss. "Please?"
Without waiting for agreement, John rolls his hips upwards, and Sherlock is able to tell that despite being three sheets to the wind, John is getting aroused. "OK, John. Alright. Just for tonight, and if you don't remember, I'm certainly not going to remind you."
"Shut up, idiot," is John's reply. "Kiss me."
In for a penny, in for a pound, figures Sherlock. He lowers his body, resting his right elbow on the mattress by way of comfort and support. With his left hand, he reaches out and pulls John's head forward roughly, to meet his lips. He places a whispersoft kiss on John's chapped bottom lip, waiting a moment to breathe in the moan that escapes. Now more forcefully, Sherlock claims John's lips hungrily. John writhes beneath him, returning the kiss, feeling overdressed, aroused, impatient. His weather-beaten hands grab for the bottom of Sherlock's shirt, pulling it free of his trousers, needy palms grasping for his skin, short nails looking for purchase to drag across his back. Another moan escapes John's lips, and he frees himself from the kiss, his back arching to expose his neck. Sherlock needs no further encouragement and attacks John's neck with his tongue - first licking, from collarbone to ear, then kissing the warm, soft, slightly stubbled skin of his jawline; until finally, with a calculated thrust of his hips, he bites the soft crook, where tanned neck meets slightly damaged shoulder.
"Fuck, hnnnnnnf, Sherlock," John gasps for breath. "Yes..." His hands slip from under the shirt, reaching for Sherlock's head, inches from his face. "Christ..." he breathes, closing his eyes, trying to regulate the rise and fall of his chest, but failing. Sherlock is feeling mischievous now; aroused yes, but playing a game and enjoying it.
"I can stop, John," he punctuates with another agonising grind, "whenever you like. Just," another more languorous thrust accentuates the pause, "tell me when." A barely imperceptible "No..." passes from John's lips, as his eyes open to meet the piercing blue-green-grey-everydamncolour pair above him. "No."
Eyes locked, Sherlock stops to consider his next move. John doesn't give him time. His thumbs trail down Sherlock's face; gently stroking cheekbones, cheek, jaw, neck. Fingers reach for buttons; buttons skitter to the floor, ripped off in John's clumsy haste to rid Sherlock of his shirt.
Sherlock remains still, studying. Is he like this with all his conquests? Decided, focused, determined? Once the shirt is de-buttoned (unbuttoned would give the impression that half of them hadn't parted company with the fabric), Sherlock repositions himself; straddling John's thighs so he can remove the shirt quickly and fling it uncharacteristically across the room. John moves his hands towards the button and zip of Sherlock's trousers, but is stopped from going further by a pale hand covering his own.
"Are you staying clothed?" Sherlock questions, peering down. "Or is it just me that you're determined to undress? You do still have your boot on, by the way. Practically speaking, it'll get in the way; aesthetically speaking it just looks strange."
"Right, yes, boot. Should do, hmm. Yeah, boot." John seems to agree, but it's not actually that clear. Sherlock smirks and moves away, taking the chance to recline against the pillows as he watches John struggle to undress.
John finally manages to divest himself of his boot, jeans, boxers, jumper and t-shirt. It's the least alluring striptease that Sherlock's ever seen. But the most endearing, with all the wobbles and concentrating-tongue-sticking-out-at-the-corner-of-his-mouth. John still has his socks on. Sherlock thinks it's not worth the hassle and John's probable tumble to the floor to point this out.
John manages a fairly straight path back to the bed, but instead of climbing in next to Sherlock, he sits on the edge again, near the bottom. He cocks his head slightly to the left, and his chin starts to dip towards his chest. He's falling asleep. Sherlock shuffles carefully across the bed, to bring himself closer to where John's sitting. He rests his face on John's shoulder, placing soft kisses along the exposed line of his neck, and snakes an arm around John's waist to take hold of the base of his cock. "Oh.. Sherlock," John breathes, as his he brings his head back to an upright position. Sherlock smiles against his neck, as he starts to tease; his fingers trailing lightly along John's arousal. Sherlock can hear John breathing through his nose, trying to focus on the sensations his body is experiencing. "Harder. This is... god, please, oh Sherlock. Please, hard-"
Sherlock runs the pad of his thumb across the head of John's cock, cutting his plea short. "As you wish," he says, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. He takes a firmer grip, and begins to stroke, slow and steady. "Like this, John?"
John nods his head briefly, unable to form his agreement into words as his breathing becomes shallower. Sherlock tries to stay detached, tries to focus on the John's response, the information he can glean from the situation; but his own breath hitches as he can't fight the fact that he wants this, he needs this just as much as John does. He increases the pressure he's applying slightly, and is rewarded with a low keening sound from the back of John's throat. Sherlock's other hand reaches around to grab John's hip to steady him, as the hand on his cock begins to twist on the up-stroke; he can feel that John is close to orgasm.
It only takes three more deft strokes to send John over the edge, his hips bucking forward and head thrown back as he comes, spilling onto Sherlock's hand; a long, sensuous "...ohhhhhhh!" pulled from his lips. Sherlock rests his forehead against John's back, exhaling slowly. He places a small kiss at the base of John's neck before he pulls away.
"I'm... I need to go and clean up. Sort, um, myself out," Sherlock explains as he stretches his long legs, assuming a sitting position next to John. Evidence of his own arousal is straining at the fabric of the trousers he's still wearing. John nods, happy, satisfied and weary.
As Sherlock leaves the room, he pauses by the door and turns instinctively to look at John. He has flopped back dramatically, arms above his head, legs still bent and feet still on the floor, and very definitely asleep. Sherlock smiles to himself, turns out the light, and shuts the door.