"John, I need your help."
Never a good sign in 221B. When Sherlock needed help, it usually meant he needed help disposing of a body. And when he asked for help, what he was really asking was for John to do all the work while Sherlock was "in the middle of a volatile experiment, John, and I know how you hate scorch marks on the table".
John groaned, putting the newspaper down as a lost cause. Only Sherlock would drag a man around London all afternoon and then deny him a spot of rest that evening. He turned to face his flatmate, immediately shocked by what the madman was holding.
A large bottle of vodka dangled from his hand while a few lemon wedges and the sugar bowl sat on the table behind him.
"It's for a case," Sherlock began, holding a hand up in a placating gesture.
"Naturally," John replied, standing and facing Sherlock with a suspicious expression. "Because normally cases require you to do body shots with your flatmate."
"Finally starting to observe, good for you John," Sherlock bandied as he turned around and placed the vodka on the table. John rolled his eyes and sat in his usual place at the table, folding his hands in front of him as he awaited Sherlock's explanation.
"I believe a man was poisoned indirectly via the vodka used to take body shots. He meant to poison whomever was taking the shots, but the poison took effect too quickly, only succeeding in placing the would-be killer in the hospital."
"Well it sounds like you've got it figured out, why do you need to experiment on me?" John demanded.
"I need to ascertain that something administered topically will take effect quickly. If I'm correct, you'll become very nauseous soon after I pour the vodka. Witnesses say the vodka was poured into the victim's navel before the sugar was placed or the lemon slice, giving the poison time to take effect," Sherlock said succinctly.
John frowned. "Just so we're clear, this is not actual poison you're putting on me, correct?" Sherlock gave him an exasperated look, but John was taking no chances. It would be just like Sherlock to accidentally poison them both.
"It's just a chemical to induce vomiting," Sherlock groaned, pouting slightly.
"If I do this, you've got to do something for me." Sherlock nodded his agreement and John grinned. "You've got to be polite to the next date I bring home. No deducing, insulting, or otherwise acting in a way that will result in me single again."
Sherlock scowled, obviously displeased with this deal, but finally acquiesced. John gave a brisk nod. "Good. Then how do you want me?" A moment later he realised how wrong that statement had come out, but it was too late to change it. Sherlock, thankfully, ignored the innuendo.
"On the table, shirt off, on your back." He gave the directions quickly in a clipped, professional voice, but the hand that he loaned a moment later to help John out of his shirt was anything but.
Once John was properly situated on the table, Sherlock mixed a portion of the vodka -a little over a shot's worth- with the chemical he'd mentioned. He then poured the vodka into John's bellybutton, making John's stomach twitch a bit. After a moment of hesitation, Sherlock leaned over John and very slowly licked first at one of John's nipples, then the other. Just as he reached for the sugar, John felt his stomach flip over, and he leaped up and ran for the sink, making it just in time to hurl his paltry dinner down the pipes.
The moment his stomach was purged, he felt infinitely better, and this feeling improved once he'd managed to rinse his mouth. "I'm going to brush my teeth, Sherlock, you clean up," he ordered sternly, retreating to the bathroom.
When he came back, however, he found everything exactly as it was, with a too-innocent Sherlock standing by. "I need a control, John," he said simply, indicating with a gesture that John should return to the tabletop. John debated arguing for a moment, but in the end decided it wasn't worth the argument. He certainly didn't agree because he wanted to feel the detective's tongue on his skin again. It was to avoid a fight. Completely.
If, when John first returned from Afghanistan, you had told him he'd wind up on a self-proclaimed sociopath's kitchen table about to let said sociopath do body shots off him, John would've laughed and then asked the bartender for a large cup of whatever you'd had too much of. Yet there he was, vodka once again in his navel and Sherlock looming over him.
A moment later, Sherlock's tongue licked a broad stripe from one of John's nipples to the other, and John tried to muffle the small whimper he let out when Sherlock paused to tease at the flesh a bit before pulling away.
Sherlock dusted the sugar over the trail he'd left, and then slid a lemon wedge between John's parted lips. John bit down on the rind slightly to keep quiet. He tried to pretend this wasn't affecting him, but even Anderson could've seen how painfully turned on John was by the entire experiment.
Things only got harder -pardon the pun- a moment later. Sherlock leaned over once more, licking up the sugar with tiny, teasing laps of his tongue before moving down John's torso and drinking the vodka. He then flew up to John's mouth and took the lemon carefully from John, their lips brushing slightly as he went, before biting down on the fruit sharply and then spitting the rind into the kitchen.
"Not terrible," Sherlock proclaimed with a small smirk. John rolled his eyes.
"You could at least do me the favour of getting me drunk before making me puke next time," John groused.
Sherlock's eyes lit up in a dangerous way. "You could always do one off me," he offered casually, in the same tone he would use to inform John that he needed his phone retrieved from his pants pocket.
John blinked for a moment, and perhaps went temporarily mad, because he meant to say "Hell no, Sherlock, I'm going to bed," but what came outwas "Alright."
