Written for sherlockeleven on tumblr who asked for ficlets about stag night boners. Here you go, sweets. I hope you like it.

~TSA

The night had gone downhill after the gay bar.

John had been so utterly confused as soon as they'd walked in the door. Men half his age were attempting to get in his pants and Sherlock was just standing there, oblivious to it all. His brain didn't register something was off until he was halfway through his drink. The beer was already hindering his mental faculties and they'd only been to four bars.

'John,' he said, giving his smaller companion a rough shove. John spluttered and nearly choked on the sip of beer he'd just drank.

'What?' he spat, wiping his chin on his sleeve.

'Why are most of these men half naked?'

'What?'

'I think we're in a gay bar.'

'No shit, Sherlock.'

'Drink quickly. We need to leave.'

'Why?'

Sherlock averted his gaze and swallowed. 'Because.'

'Yeah. Whatever.' John gulped down the rest of his drink. His head was already fuzzy from how quickly they'd been drinking. Five pints down now. John dreaded to think how many more stops Sherlock had planned.

He remembered stumbling out into the cold air, someone was laughing, and then John was pulling Sherlock away from a fight about Ash. Who the hell was Ash? They'd gotten a cab and nearly fallen asleep on the stairs leading up to 221B, but Mrs Hudson had woken them and told them that they'd only been out two hours. After that shocking revelation, they'd somehow stumbled up to their- no, Sherlock's flat and had gotten a rather expensive looking bottle of scotch out of one of the cupboards.

'Gift from Myc,' Sherlock explained. 'He seems t' think I'm having trouble coping with... ya know. You 'n Mary gettin' married.'

'And do you?' John asked as he poured them each a sizable glass of scotch.

'Nah.' Sherlock waved a dismissive hand and stumbled backward until he collapsed in his chair. 'Flat's empty is all.'

John shrugged and gave Sherlock one of the glasses. He plopped down in his own chair and sipped at his drink. The scotch was very old, more Mycroft's taste than Sherlock's. John knew Sherlock preferred whisky when he drank, which happened once in a blue moon. The last time he could remember Sherlock drinking was during the Hound case.

At some point John lost his shoes somewhere. They soon got bored and Sherlock demanded they play a game. John suggested a guessing game since Sherlock was so damn good at deductions. Sherlock agreed and soon they were sticking papers to their foreheads and trying to guess who they were supposed to be. John, in a moment of sober clarity, wrote Sherlock's name on all the papers he had to choose from to see if Sherlock could deduce himself based on his answers. They took a drink every time they got a no in answer to their question, and soon John had to refill their glasses. John was thoroughly enjoying being able to be completely honest about his opinion of Sherlock, and Sherlock had no clue who the hell he was supposed to be. The poor bastard thought he was the current king of England. He burst out laughing and shook his head.

'You know we don't have a king?' he said.

'Don't we?'

'No.' John shook his head dramatically from side to side as he slipped further down in his chair. Sherlock grabbed his glass and waved vaguely in John's direction. 'Your go.'

John sat up as if to clear his head by sitting up straighter but began slipping out of his chair. He grabbed hold of Sherlock's knee to right himself and held on for a moment too long. He looked down at his hand and shrugged before letting go.

'I don't mind,' he said.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand and said, 'Any time.'

John didn't hear. Instead, he asked, 'Am I... a woman?' Sherlock burst out into giggles. 'What?'

'Yes,' Sherlock said after the giggles subsided. He pulled himself up in his chair to get himself closer to John and the name stuck to his forehead.

'Am I... pretty?' John asked. 'This,' he said, pointing to the paper to remind Sherlock it was for the game and not a question to soothe his ego.

'Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models,' Sherlock slurred, still the arrogant berk even when drunk.

'Yeah, but am I a pretty lady?' John asked, entirely serious. Sherlock squinted and moved a bit closer to better see the name written on John's piece of paper.

'I don't know who you are,' he said. 'I don't know who you're supposed to be.'

'You picked the name!' John protested.

'I picked it at random from the papers,' Sherlock said, gesturing to the pile of papers on the floor.

'You're not really getting the hang of this game, are you, Sherlock?' John asked, plopping back in his chair in exasperation. Sherlock mulled it over for a moment before speaking.

'So, I am human, I'm not as tall as people think I am, I'm... I'm nice-ishhhhh,' he slurred, the 'sh' getting dragged out longer than necessary. 'Clever,' he continued. 'Important to some people, but I tend to rub them up the wrong way.' His eyes widened and he laughed as the clues seemed to click in his mind. 'Got it.' John was prepared to admit defeat, his feet propped up on Sherlock's chair for some reason or other, when Sherlock spoke again. 'I'm you aren't I?'

John gasped, slightly offended but also a bit flattered. 'You think I'm clever?'

'Well, not as clever as most, but you're... smart.' Sherlock sipped at his drink. 'Am I right?'

'Nope.'

'Damn.'

'My turn.'

'I still don't know who you are.'

'Then Google me!' John slumped back in his chair and waited while Sherlock pulled out his mobile and drunkenly typed the name on John's paper. He skimmed through the Wikipedia page and photos when he did an image search. He grimaced at a few, so John knew he must not be a very attractive woman.

'K,' Sherlock said after a few minutes. 'Go.'

'Am I pretty?' John asked again.

'No.' John nodded and mulled over another question.

'Famous?'

'Yes.'

'Music?'

'Yes.'

'Um...' John pursed his lips. 'Married?'

'No.'

'Your go.' John took a big sip of his drink.

'Am I famous?' Sherlock asked.

'In a way.'

Sherlock thumbed through his phone and asked, 'Am I someone you'd want to sleep with?'

'What?'

'Am I someone you'd want to sleep with?' Sherlock asked again.

'What the fuck kind of question is that?'

'The Internet told me to ask it,' Sherlock said innocently.

'The Internet?'

'Yeah.' Sherlock showed John his phone. It was open to a web-page that listed questions to ask during a game of 20 Questions. 'Now answer the question. Iz valid. Would you want to sleep with me?'

John licked his lips and swallowed thickly. Did he want to sleep with Sherlock? He'd been asking himself that question for months now. He'd been having trouble... getting it up, so to speak, and could only get hard if he was thinking about Sherlock. Mary knew and used it to her advantage, whispering things about Sherlock in John's ear, wondering what his face looked like when he came, or what sort of noises he made when getting head, or if he ever wanked in the shower. John would cum in minutes when she talked to him like that. He'd put a stop to it after Mary brought up how tight and warm Sherlock must be if he was really a virgin. John didn't want to think about Sherlock like that, but he couldn't help but fantasise about it later in the shower. He and Mary hadn't been intimate in a couple months, and the thought of having sex with Sherlock came bubbling back to the surface so quickly he didn't have time to stop all the images from flooding his brain.

He closed his eyes and moaned, his head flopping back against his chair.

'Yes,' he moaned out.

'So I'm someone you'd want to sleep with?'

'God yes.' John gasped and his eyes shot open when he realised what he'd just said. 'Um... wait. I mean-' He froze when he felt his erection straining against his trousers. This was not good. Sherlock was staring at his crotch with a sort of rabid curiosity. John's cheeks burned a deep red and he tried to hide his very obvious arousal from Sherlock's gaze.

'Don't.' Sherlock reached out and grasped John's wrist. He noted how quickly his heart was beating as his fingers brushed over John's pulse. John licked his lips again and stared up at Sherlock.

'I'm me,' Sherlock said after a moment of tense silence.

'How long have you known?'

'Since the clever question. I jus wanted t' see what else you'd say.'

'You're a right git,' John bit out. He tried to snatch his wrist away but Sherlock had a firm grip on it.

'But I'm a git you'd sleep with.'

'Fuck off,' John spat.

'No.' Sherlock pulled on John's wrist, causing the older man to fall forward so their faces were closer together. 'I want to do this.' His free hand slid along the bulge in John's trousers, causing him to hiss and groan. He arched into the touch before he could stop himself, his hips moving of their own accord. John gasped and moaned when Sherlock's hand squeezed him through the fabric of his trousers and pants. Fucking hell that felt bloody amazing. Especially after two months of no sex.

'It's been a while,' he rasped out.

'I can tell.' Their eyes met as Sherlock's hand pulled at the button of John's trousers and pulled down the zip.

'You sure about this?' John asked, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock in concern. Any concern quickly disappeared when Sherlock's hand wrapped around his cock. Skin on skin contact, no barriers, just warm skin with rough calluses from the Work. John hissed and arched into Sherlock's hand, pushing his cock through his fist.

'I've never been more sure about anything in my entire life,' Sherlock said softly. John almost didn't hear him. He was too caught up in the feel of Sherlock's hand around his throbbing cock.

'Is this... okay?' Sherlock asked after a few minutes of steadily pumping John's prick. John opened his eyes and forced himself to look at Sherlock.

'Is what okay?' he asked. 'The hand job?' Sherlock merely nodded. 'Have you never given one before?'

'Only on myself,' Sherlock answered, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. 'Is it okay?'

'It's fine,' John assured him. 'You could go a little faster though.' So Sherlock did. John's head lolled back against the chair and he thrust into Sherlock's hand. Suddenly, a wet heat enveloped the head of his prick. He gasped and lurched upward, shoving his cock deeper into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock didn't even gag. Bloody hell. That was fucking hot.

'More,' John gasped out. 'Oh my god. More.' Sherlock sucked more of John down and began bobbing his head in a steady rhythm. His hand moved down to John's bollocks and began playing with them. John whined and moaned pitifully as the onslaught of sensation drowned him. He reached out to grab Sherlock's hair, not pushing or pulling, just holding on. He noted that it was much softer than he imagined it would be, his grip tightening when Sherlock did something with his tongue that sent sparks shooting through John's veins. He could feel his orgasm building, his toes curling as he felt warmth radiating from the base of his spine.

'Sher,' he choked out. 'Gonna... Gonna cum.' Sherlock didn't stop his ministrations. In fact, he bobbed faster and sucked harder. John teetered on the edge for two more seconds before he exploded. He cried out a garbled version of Sherlock's name as he pulsed down his throat. Sherlock worked him through his orgasm and made sure he cleaned him up afterwards, licking away the evidence. John stared at the ceiling for five minutes, his brain muddled and his senses dulled from his intense orgasm.

'Good?' Sherlock asked after a while. John's head flopped at a weird angle to look at him.

'Very good,' he said.

'Do you mind if I-?' Sherlock gestured to his own trousers and John noticed the rather prominent bulge there. His cheeks flushed anew at the sight.

'No. Go ahead.'

Sherlock stumbled to his feet and pulled at the fastenings of his trousers. Soon they were pooled on the floor, a pair of black boxers soon joining them. Sherlock was about to plop down in his chair when John reached out for him.

'No,' he said, his fingers grazing Sherlock's wrist. 'C'mere.' He pointed to his lap. Sherlock stumbled forward and plopped down on John's lap, his thighs straddling him. John reached out a tentative hand and grasped Sherlock's warm prick. He slid his hand down Sherlock's length slowly, experimenting with pressure and speed until he found what Sherlock liked. Sherlock grasped the back of John's chair to steady himself and thrust into John's hand. No one else had ever touched him, but he'd never wanted anyone else except John to touch him since they met. Well, since John had shot the cabbie and Sherlock had woken up hard and wanting the next morning.

'Sherlock,' John whispered, drawing him out of his thoughts. His other hand was tangled in the thatch of Sherlock's curls at the base of his neck, pulling his head forward so their lips were almost touching. 'Can I-?' Sherlock closed the distance before John could ask the question. They kissed sloppily, open-mouthed and with too much tongue. But neither of them cared. Sherlock was too far gone to worry about the consequences and John was enjoying himself far too much.

'John,' Sherlock gasped into the kiss. 'I... I'm-'

'Almost there?' John guessed. He sped up his fist, wanking Sherlock faster in an attempt to get him to fall apart. Sherlock whined and pressed his forehead to John's. He breathed in John's harsh pants, sucking in his air like it was his lifeline. He gasped and his entire body shuddered as his orgasm snuck up on him, hard and fast. He came all over John's shirt, staining it beyond repair. His thighs trembled as he tried to remain upright. John kissed his temple and his hands slid under Sherlock's thighs, caressing them.

'Bed?' he asked quietly. Sherlock nodded, unable to speak for the moment. John helped Sherlock ease off his lap and stand on his wobbly legs. He guided him toward his bedroom, making sure he didn't trip and fall along the way. Not that he'd be of much help if he fell. He'd probably just fall right on top of him and they'd sleep on the floor.

They made it to Sherlock's room unscathed. Sherlock pulled a random shirt and pair of boxers out of his wardrobe and thrust them on. John helped him into bed and made to go sleep in his old bedroom upstairs, but Sherlock grabbed onto his wrist again.

'Stay with me?' he asked softly.

'You sure?' John looked at him, taking in his sad eyes. Why was Sherlock sad?

'Yes,' Sherlock whispered. 'Please. I... I don't want to be alone right now.'

'Okay,' John whispered back. He pulled off his soiled shirt and pants, tossing them on top of Sherlock's discarded clothes. He grabbed another shirt and pair of boxers from Sherlock's wardrobe, knowing Sherlock wouldn't mind. He climbed into bed beside Sherlock and the younger man instantly wrapped himself around him. John pet his hair and closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep. Sherlock placed one last kiss upon his lips before he too settled down for the night.

Neither of them particularly cared that they'd just broken their unspoken boundaries, or crossed the line that separated flatmates from sexual desire. John didn't even particularly care that he'd just cheated on his fiancé with his best friend. They were happy and content and, for the time being, that was all that mattered. They'd face the consequences of their actions in the morning.

I might write a second part to this, but I don't know right now. We'll see what happens and if the muse strikes.

I hope you enjoyed this, sherlockeleven. I hope it fit what you were looking for ;)