Chapter 1
"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked from his lounging position on the sofa. "It's already 8."
Not expecting his flatmate to be awake, John nearly jumped in surprise at the question.
"Sherlock!" he exclaimed, eyes darting from the door to the man in question, "Aren't you supposed to be sleeping?"
"Bored," replied Sherlock with an eye roll, getting to his feet in one practiced motion. He stalked forward, eyes fixated on John. "Well?"
"I'm going out," John sighed, passing a tired hand through his hair, "Why? Do you want to come with?"
Sherlock's lips curved in to a small smile at that.
"Judging by what you have planned, I doubt you would want me to intrude upon your evening."
John rolled his eyes, not even surprised that Sherlock had somehow managed to deduce everything in John's mind.
"You're right," he allowed, "Now, if you don't mind, I'll be going now."
"If you have nowhere to go afterwards," Sherlock called after him just as he was about to close the door, "You can bring them back here. I'll be gone until tomorrow morning."
Too grateful for the reprieve, John didn't even ask Sherlock where he was going before trotting down the stairs.
The thing was, despite the nickname he had earned while in the military, John Watson was not a one-night-stand kind of man. When it comes to sex, John actually preferred to share some kind of sentimental link with his partner. But after a dry spell of nearly 2 years, John decided that maybe it was time to lower his standards.
"I can't believe I've become this desperate," John moaned to himself as he took another sip of his rum/coke.
The club was a middle-class thing that had recently opened two blocks away from Baker Street. The entrance fee was extremely cheap, not to mention the uninterrupted flow of alcohol. John was sure that with some manipulating, he'll get himself a one-night-stand in no time.
A laugh from his left made him look up in surprise.
"I have to say," his new companion said, his voice a smooth velvet that sent shivers down John's spine, "You don't look like someone who needs to find a bedmate in this kind of place."
If John didn't look like someone who needed alcohol to persuade people to sleep with him, then this new arrival probably didn't even need to talk before people would throw themselves at him. Dressed in a pair of skinny jeans, topped off with an elegant vest that looked a little bit out of place among all the sloppily dressed teenagers around them, the messy black haired young man before him looked like a model who got lost on his way to a photo shoot. Everything about him screamed power and wealth; like people should be grateful just to be in his presence.
"I could say the same for you," John managed, smiling awkwardly back at his companion. "I'm John."
"Hadrian," the young man shook his hand before taking a place beside him. He ordered a glass of Coke and took a sip, ignoring the way the bartender was almost undressing him with his eyes. John felt violated just by witnessing the scene.
"It's nice to meet you Hadrian," he said for a lack of anything else to say, "Hmm, how old are you?"
The moment the question was out, John flushed red and tried to stammer out an apology. He really didn't want to sound like some kind of nagging parent at the moment.
Luckily, Hadrian didn't look offended in the least.
"I'm 22," he replied, "And don't worry about it; I look young for my age."
John relaxed in to a more natural smile as he took another sip.
He had a feeling that this was going to be good.
Waking up after a night of heavy drinking was never a pleasant experience. The next morning, John moaned and groaned his way to consciousness, cursing his stupid decision to drink as if his body wasn't on the wrong side of 35.
"Stupid, idiot, moronic," he grumbled as he stumbled in to the bathroom, mind still a blur. It was only after he came down to the living room and saw a familiar figure lounging half-dressed on the sofa, that he remembered that he hadn't come home alone.
"Hadrian!" he exclaimed, and the black haired young man turned to look at him, an easy grin on his face.
"Good morning," he replied. Despite having drank almost as much as John the previous night, Hadrian looked awake and refreshed, his clothing free of any wrinkles. John wondered just how it was possible since he was sure they had spent the night crumpled on the floor. But before he could ask Hadrian that exact questions, Sherlock came in to the room, successfully attracting his attention.
"You really done it this time John," Sherlock piped up, a gleeful glint in his eyes.
"He's legal!" John protested, thinking that was what Sherlock was talking about.
Sherlock snorted.
"Of course he's legal, but that isn't the problem here."
"Sherlock," Hadrian snapped, and John was taken aback by how familiar he was acting towards the Great Detective. John may not be a genius, but he wasn't stupid. That was enough for him to arrive at the conclusion that somehow, Hadrian and Sherlock knew each other. And just like that, John suddenly had a very bad feeling about this.
"Of course we know each other," Sherlock said, once again intruding upon John's thoughts, "Hadrian here is Mycroft's son and heir. And let me tell you; my brother would be delighted when he finds out where his precious child had spent the night."
As Sherlock burst in to uncharacteristic laughter, John could only stare in horror at a sheepish looking Hadrian.
"Oops?"
TBC.
