A/N: Well, this terrible example of literature as we know it is my very poor attempt at a New Years fic. My brain seems to have deteriorated since the last time I used it... hence the really random title. :D
I wanted to do a New Years fic, and I also wanted to do a detailed kissing scene, so I combined the two, creating the most sexual thing I've ever written, full-stop, seeing as I pretty much always fade to black. :) Added to the fact that this is un-beta'd and was mainly written while I was a) tired or b) feeling fed up with my heat-induced headache...well. Hence ze crapiness and ze rating.
I have never been drunk, that much is probably obvious from the most likely very inaccurate way I portray being drunk. XD Forgive me, please.
I apologise for any OOC-ness if there is any, this is technically my first time writing the actual characters of Sherlock and John, and not just throwing metaphors everywhere like so much fairy dust. XD
Please review...even if it is to throw cyber!tomatoes at me.
The second hand on the clock ticks past the forty-five second mark, and the alcohol buzzes agreeably in John's bloodstream, demolishing his inhibitions like water on a sandcastle. There are people everywhere in the overcrowded room, talking, yelling, drinking, singing... waiting for the countdown to begin, and generally creating white noise in the meantime.
The pub is, miraculously, still open at near enough to midnight, and serves drinks rather enthusiastically to its increasingly inebriated patrons.
Sherlock was the one who suggested it, oddly enough. He knows some very odd places, and John is willing to bet 50 quid on the fact that Sherlock has a favour one of the bartenders owes him.
Of course, they did serve a brilliant Lager here, and he hadn't had anywhere else that was more appealing, so he was staying to watch the countdown to New Years with Sherlock on the telly suspended behind the bar.
Speaking of Sherlock, where was he?
Spinning like a top that is running out of steam as he looks around, he trips on his own feet and very nearly makes a spectacular dive onto the floorboards, only to have two capable arms catch him before his face makes a rough acquaintance with the ground.
He giggles, and looks up to see Sherlock's face swimming into view.
Sherlock grins at him, an uncoordinated, lopsided smile, the man appearing to be equally as spectacularly sloshed, and pulls on John's arms to get him into an upright position. Both of them very nearly end up sprawled on the floor like collapsed card-castles, their balance made precarious by the liquor.
The countdown begins.
10...
"John," slurs Sherlock, his arms wrapped tightly around the other man's waist so as to keep him standing. John doesn't complain at the close proximity.
9...
"Isn't there some sort of...custom...at New Years..." Sherlock pauses, regaining his precarious balance.
8...
"Where plastered couples snog each other's brains out?"
7...
John takes a moment to answer, instead gripping Sherlock's upper arms and literally dragging himself up the other man to stand on his own feet.
6...
John attempts to nod sagely, but ends up looking like he's following a fly with his nose and nearly tipping over again. "It's supposed to be lucky."
5...
Sherlock leans closer.
4...
"Do you want any luck, John?" Sherlock's eyes are mesmerising, and John is strangely entranced to get closer to them... see exactly what colour they are, and memorise it perfectly...
3...
John is still drowning in Sherlock's gaze, although his attention slowly drifts down his face towards his mouth, whilst Sherlock himself appears to be drifting even closer...
2...
"Well?"
Sherlock's mouth brushes the shell of John's ear with an odd amount of finesse and grace for his current state as he says that one word. His voice is impossibly low, and it seems to reverberate throughout John's entire body – echoing down his bones to his feet and then back up again.
1...
Who the bloody hell would be able to resist that?
"Oh god, yes."
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
The hordes of people surrounding and pushing against them let out a mostly inarticulate roar, the celebratory words nearly lost in the sound, and all the pre-designated couples dive for each other and tactlessly smash their mouths together.
Milliseconds after the loud announcement, Sherlock descends upon him, and his lips are pressing on John's.
Nobody really blames John for losing track of everyone else for a moment, not when his flatmate is giving him the first not-straight-really-quite-gay New Years kiss he's ever had.
Unlike the couples surrounding them, both men are taking the time to just memorise the feeling of the others mouth on theirs. How John's lips are still moist from the nervous licking he does now and again, even while intoxicated, and how Sherlock's plump lower lip is dryer than it looks.
Sherlock's arms are still around John's waist, and John's arms have snaked their way around Sherlock's neck, gripping tightly and pulling the taller man closer to him. Both pairs of eyes have drifted closed, wanting to feel rather than see.
It is an awkward kiss, with noses bumping and the height difference proving a slight problem, but the feeling of literal cheek to cheek contact overrides that – John hasn't realised how badly he's wanted this, drunk or not. The fact that Sherlock is another man doesn't really compute at the moment.
As the noise from the throng, the thudding and cracking of fireworks outside and the tolling of Big Ben in the distance register dimly on the edges of his awareness, John feels Sherlock's mouth prying his own lips apart, soon followed by a tongue that probes along his upper lip, then at the corners of his mouth, slowly and without the ease that comes from practise. He gracelessly slides his own tongue around Sherlock's, tracing the line of the other man's lips and savouring the sensation of another tongue on his. Sherlock hums appreciatively against John's mouth, and it is felt through the vibrations more than heard. His hands slide up John's back from his waist to his shoulders, almost as though he can map the skin beneath by just feeling the fabric. His hands finally stop to rest when they are framing John's face, and he uses them as leverage to pry himself and John apart.
John sways forward at the loss of contact, eyes still closed, aiming to find Sherlock's mouth again, before a single finger is placed on his mouth, pushing him back gently, and his eyes open. Sherlock's face is blurred in front of him, but the grin plastered across his face is visible enough. The finger lifts from his lips, and Sherlock waves his head in the vague direction of the door. The insinuation is clear.
John nods, carefully and slowly this time. He envies Sherlock for being so articulate and steady whilst drunk, how could he be able to access his vocabulary and shake his head without falling over when – oh.
"Sh'lock," He says, trying to sound commanding, "Y'aren't drunk, are you?"
Sherlock, who has John's arm in a secure grip, leading him to the door, turns to John and surveys him for a moment, before leaning down close to his ear again, so he can actually be heard over the revellers.
"I never said I was. Besides - would being drunk make you want to kiss me again any less?"
John just makes his best attempt at glaring angrily at his flatmate, but his heart isn't in it. He ends up glaring at the floor instead, not wanting to admit that that does sound rather inviting.
John feels two arms slip under his arms and around his chest, bracing him against a warm body, and he doesn't put up a fight, instead welcoming the touch.
Sherlock's mouth is close to his ear again, and his voice, dropped to its lowest register, rumbles through the fog clouding John's brain -
"Happy New Year, John."
Even though Sherlock is an insufferable git, and there will likely be a sexual identity crisis in the morning on John's part, and he's going to have a murderous hangover later...
It's still the best New Years he's had in a long while.