"Sherlock, you have a visitor," Mrs. Hudson said slyly from around the doorframe. Sherlock sighed deeply and closed the book he'd been reading- the most common moss species in Great Britain would just have to wait, apparently. He checked his watch. Awfully late for a client. He sighed again. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he said dismissively, standing up and positioning himself before the mantle.
"Sherlock."
He turned around, feigning composure and disinterest. "John. I thought you were a client."
"Nope, no. Just me." He stood awkwardly by the door. Sherlock cleared his throat and gestured to the red chair opposite his.
"Sit, please. Would you like some tea?"
"Yes, thanks."
Sherlock bustled about the kitchen in his best impersonation of Mrs. Hudson, even humming to himself in his effort to ignore the man in his sitting room. He kept his eyes down, focused on tea bags and pots of sugar and cream.
John watched Sherlock ignore him, taking this time to compose himself a bit. Why the awkwardness? It was unnecessary, really. This had been his home for long enough. Sherlock was wearing the purple shirt that accentuated the bumps and curves of his back and shoulders much more than the customary black, or a heavy coat, ever would. John both admired and was jealous of his figure, tall and fit. It was a body that John, so short and stocky, would never posses. But, ultimately, what really struck him was Sherlock making tea. John wasn't sure he'd ever seen Sherlock do such a thing for himself.
Sherlock walked back into the siting room while the kettle warmed and leaned against the mantle, arms folded.
"Won't Mary need you at hand to bring her crushed ice and adjust her pillow?"
"She's eight months pregnant, Sherlock, not an invalid," John replied tersely. Then, after a moment, "Anyway, she said I should visit you more often now, before the baby arrives. That's when she'll really need my help."
"Hmm." Sherlock didn't really know what to say about babies, and childbearing was a phenomena he preferred not to dwell on at any length. A necessary evil. Frequently unnecessary. What did John Watson need with a mewling, helpless infant?
"Well Sherlock, aren't you glad to see me?" John asked with a laugh. The kettle squealed a sustained, painful cry, and Sherlock went into the kitchen without answering. He put the tea things on a tray, brought them into the sitting room and set them on the table between himself and John. He picked up a teaspoon, and hesitated.
"Two sugars, Sherlock," John reminded him, stirring honey into his own tea.
"Right."
John coughed into his tea cup. "Sherlock, is this brandy?"
"Yes." He produced a bottle from beside his chair. "I found it on the front steps this morning, and before you say anything I already thoroughly checked it for all manner of poisons. It's ordinary brandy."
John grimaced, took another cautionary sip. "How much did you put in?"
"Just enough for a hot toddy, yes? No?" He took a sip of his own tea. "No. Ah, well." And then he raised his cup and inclined his head, smiling the smallest bit. "To surprises."
John chuckled. "To surprises."
They drank their shockingly strong tea in a more companionable silence. When they finished Sherlock refilled their cups with hot water and brandy.
"Mrs. Hudson says it's good for the throat."
"Well, Mrs. Hudson would know."
Sherlock laughed.
Outside a car's screeching wheels could be heard, briefly. A laughing group passed nearby and was just as quickly gone. The bustle of London was all around them yet transient, somehow far away. John felt his body relax warmly from the brandy. He realized he was still wearing his jacket, and removed it. Remembering Mrs. Hudson's commands about a clean carpet he also removed his shoes. His socks were a yellow and olive argyle pattern. Sherlock's were solid, dark plum.
The detective began describing a recent case, something slightly ridiculous involving a grocery store and a bucket of lard. He gesticulated with his long, slim fingers as he spoke, laughing at the stupidity of some mere mortal, with eyes that crinkled around the edges. John sipped his brandy, watching and listening, all nods and smiles, really hearing less of the story than the familiar, penetrating voice it was told in. His vision was swimming slightly, and Sherlock seemed unusually loud, but also far away.
A little over half the bottle of brandy was gone. Sherlock asked John some unimportant question just to encourage him to speak, somehow fearing the silence at the bottom of the brandy bottle. Eventually John noticed his intent watching and trailed off into that amber-brown quiet. Eventually he moved his hand forward and hovered it over Sherlock's knee.
"Sherlock."
"You're sweating around the temples, John. Your pupils have dilated slightly and-"
"Sherlock-"
"Your pulse has quickened considerably."
Sherlock's hand caught John's, his thumb moving slightly over the pale wrist.
"Evidence suggests," he whispered.
"Sherlock, please-"
"I would deduce that-"
"Sherlock, please, for me..."
John shook away Sherlock's hand and grabbed both of his knees.
"Please shut up."
They stared at one another, Sherlock really only complying out of surprise. Their chests heaved. John matter-of-factly grabbed Sherlock's neck and pulled it towards him until their lips met.
Blood, quickened and thinned by alcohol, pounded in their heads. The room softened around the edges, was almost spinning.
"John. Look, I-"
John shook his head.
"Just this once, Sherlock, just don't."
They kissed again, sweet and sharp. Usually the first to realize, the first to act, Sherlock felt completely out of his own control, out of his depth and powerless. John, solider, friend— he could trust this, he could let the humming vacuum of his mind take over and…
John unbuckled Sherlock's belt with the deftness and urgency of an expert dismantling a bomb; care was required, the utmost care, yet time was of the utmost essence.
He was surprised at how little anxiety he felt, lifting Sherlock's tumescent cock from the black trousers and into his mouth. He took the entirety of it, feeling that it was somehow proper and correct to be servicing Sherlock Holmes in this way. He expected nothing in return, moving the smooth and veiny member in and out of his mouth; was past all expectations in the dreamlike air. Sherlock was incredibly still; his hands grasped either arm of his chair, and his eyes were firmly shut. When he finally came it was with great surprise. John swallowed and wiped the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. Sherlock stood, the slightest perceptible tremor in his legs, and stalked to the bedroom with the same pace as if he were minutes away from a great discovery, alight and animated with realization. And, like he'd done hundreds of times before and would do hundreds of times again, John stood up and followed Sherlock Holmes.