"Where is the- gah! Sherlock!" John shouted, his head and shoulders still lodged in the cupboard. "What did I tell you about keeping your experiments next to the tea cups?"
"Absolutely nothing, John," Sherlock replied from behind him. John jumped, startled. He could have sworn Sherlock had been in the living room. "You asked me to refrain from placing my experiments in the tea kettle. You never made any such request in regards to the tea cups."
John pulled himself from the cabinet, groaning gently at his flatmate's determination to be difficult. "I'd assumed that it was implied. The world's greatest detective surely can deduce that much." Sherlock ignored the jab and strolled back to the living room where he began to play his violin, loudly.
I must be bloody mad, John thought with frustration, trying to decide if whatever Sherlock had growing in the cups was deadly. He put it back, thinking that it most likely was, and wasn't worth the risk at any rate. Instead he shook his head at the mess of a kitchen and stepped to the living room.
"Sherlock!" he called over the music. Sherlock held up a single finger and resolved the measure before turning to face the doctor.
"Yes, you have a date tonight and so will be unavailable to me. Have a lovely time," Sherlock commented after looking at John oddly for a moment.
John rolled his eyes, but left the apartment feeling an odd sense of wrongness. Sherlock had seemed almost… agitated. As if something was bothering him. And then he'd wished John a good evening. The doctor couldn't recall a time Sherlock had commented on his dates beyond the usual ridiculous –yet accurate- observations after meeting them.
The date went well. Her name was Wendy, and they really seemed to hit it off, but when she invited him over to her flat on the way home from the pub, John politely declined. He couldn't quite say why, but something still felt wrong about the whole evening. He hurried home, hoping he was wrong and that it wasn't a bender night.
In his stay at 221B Baker Street, he'd only seen Sherlock truly pissed on one occasion. After a holiday visit with his mother Sherlock had been returned to John by Mycroft, who explained that he wasn't sure what had happened but that his brother appeared to be only drunk. Albeit, extremely drunk. When Sherlock had awoken the next morning complaining of a bloody awful hangover, John had forced him to stay in bed and drink water for several hours. After that, they hadn't spoken of it. John still didn't know what had set him off. He probably never would.
Something told him that things were coming to a head, and it was this thought that spurred him forward into the flat. The living room was empty, as was the kitchen. He ignored the simmering experiments that covered every available surface and rushed to Sherlock's room. He threw the door open, only to find Sherlock preparing a syringe with clinical precision.
"Damn it, Sherlock!" John shouted, knocking the needle out of Sherlock's hand. "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, ignoring Sherlock's stormy expression as he snatched up the bottle of what was undoubtedly cocaine.
"I had thought that it was rather obvious," Sherlock commented coolly, attempting to reach for the needle again. John batted his hands away, a little harder than necessary.
"Let me rephrase. What the hell are you doing, breaking your promise like this? You were doing great, Sherlock. What happened?" John was still shouting, and a desperate edge had come into his voice. He studied Sherlock's face, trying to figure things out. A strange light seemed to shine in Sherlock's eyes; instead of excitement it seemed almost… desperate. "Sherlock…" John began, his voice softening as he stepped nearer to Sherlock, close enough that he had to tilt his head up to meet the detective's eyes. "Are you all right?" His hand came up without his permission, moving as if to cup Sherlock's cheek. He froze, his hand still in the air for a moment before he let it drop.
Sherlock noticed –of course he noticed, he saw bloody everything- and gave a dark, humorless laugh. "No, John, I am assuredly not all right." John's hand once again rose of its own accord and clapped down on Sherlock's shoulder, startling them both.
"Sherlock," John said seriously. "What's wrong?" The detective was scaring him. John couldn't think of a time he'd seen Sherlock so vulnerable, so… shaken. Sherlock laughed again, but there was no joy in the sound.
"Oh, John, surely even you can figure it out. Honestly, think it over, just for a moment. Use your mind," Sherlock sneered, his fingers flexing as he pulled back from John's hand.
Fine, use my mind. I'll use my mind. Let's see. He seemed fine until I mentioned Wendy… and then I came back from my date… he probably assumed I'd be gone overnight, hell, I assumed I would be. But why would that bother Sherlock? Unless… unless… Sherlock was jealous.
The idea slammed into him, and once it was there it refused to leave, instead taking root and falling into place as if it made perfect sense. But it didn't, Sherlock Holmes didn't get jealous. Least of all jealous over John. It was ridiculous. Yet…
"Sherlock… You aren't- I mean, this isn't about Wendy, is it?" John stammered awkwardly. The detective laughed again, and this time his voice was full of self-mockery.
"That took you long enough," Sherlock stated sardonically, reaching for the bottle this time. "I'd thank you very much if you'd just leave me to it, then." John slid the bottle into his pocket and refused to hand it over.
"No, I will not 'leave you to it'. Sherlock- you can't just- this- did you even think it through?" John blustered, his mind still reeling from Sherlock's revelation. He'd always believed Sherlock had a heart, but it was still a shock to see it confirmed. And in such a way.
"John, I've thought it through more than you have," Sherlock said flatly.
The doctor would be lying if he said he hadn't considered it from time to time- more often than he'd like to admit, in actuality- but in the end, he'd never been able to entertain it in reality. Sherlock simply didn't do things like that.
And now he was staring evidence to the contrary in the face, and there was only one thing to do.
He reached over, grabbed Sherlock by the hips, and pulled until the detective was completely against him. With a small growl he reached up and pulled Sherlock's mouth down to his. Sherlock froze for a moment, giving John a moment to second-guess himself, but a second later completely relaxed and took control of the kiss, backing John against a wall as he slid his tongue into the doctor's mouth.
John groaned, trying to win back dominance in the kiss as he nipped at Sherlock's bottom lip. Their mouths moved together hotly, fiercely, as if they were trying to breathe each other in. John felt lightheaded and he didn't care, he didn't care, all he wanted was more of this, more of Sherlock. Somehow he had removed Sherlock's shirt and was working out of his own jumper.
Sherlock's nimble fingers undid the buttons down John's shirt quickly, stripping the cloth away until John's chest was completely exposed. His hands danced across John's muscles, loving the heat and feel of them beneath his fingertips.
They kissed and kissed until they were both so lightheadedly delirious that they had to recline back on Sherlock's bed lest they fall over. Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows over John and looked down at the doctor. Everything about him seemed to glow; he looked rumpled and utterly delicious with his lips swollen and red.
"I didn't say you could stop," John murmured, burying his fingers into Sherlock's dark curls and pulling him down.
Sherlock fell against him with a desperate sound, plundering John's mouth with his own until he couldn't discern his own moans from John's. He could hardly breath, could hardly think. It was as if he was drunk, and it was incredible.
With a smooth motion that seemed to have been practiced John flipped so that Sherlock was beneath him. He peppered kisses down Sherlock's chest, moving steadily lower as Sherlock twisted and squirmed beneath him. He teased his tongue around Sherlock's navel, loving the breathy gasp he managed to draw from the detective as he slowly moved towards his waistband.
He needed this, needed Sherlock like he'd never needed anything or anyone else. He wanted to feel all of Sherlock against him, to know what it felt like to have his hands everywhere. He moved his hands to Sherlock's trousers, finding the answering bulge and running a hand along it through the fabric. Sherlock moaned breathily and arched against him, pressing them together until John thought he was going to fall apart.
"Is this- is this alright?" John huffed, trying to catch his breath and ask permission before stripping his flatmate.
"Oh God yes," Sherlock gasped, and John grinned. He couldn't think of the last time Sherlock had said the word 'god' without a sneer. He fumbled at the fastenings for a moment, but then the fabric was gone and only John's pants were separating them. Sherlock was having none of that, and removed them as quickly as he could.
John couldn't breath. There was no going back now, no returning to what they had once been. And he didn't care. With one hard push that made them both cry out he was inside Sherlock, and after that, nothing mattered.