10:50
Sherlock was not a pub person. He hated them in fact. And Donnie knew that. So why the hell had he brought him to one? God he was handsome.
"Sherlock, love, do you want anything?" Tbd detective snapped back to attention, the term of endearment rattling him.
"Uhm," the bartender was looking at him questioning.
"Whatever he's having." The man have a nod and wandered off the the wall of liquor. There were rows of clear bottles lined up, all filled with alcohol of different colours. Sherlock turned to Adonnis, feeling nervous and hating himself for it. His ex-lover shifted, obviously uncomfortable as well.
"I-I know you hate pubs but I didn't know of anywhere else to go." He told him. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him.
"What do you mean, how long have you been here?" He asked. Adonnis glanced at his watch.
"About sixteen hours." Sherlock was shocked.
"You didn't..."
"Come here just to see you? Yes. Yes I did." The bartender returned with their drinks, tall shot glasses filled to the brim with a watery brown liquid. Sherlock was baffled...but then again...He wasn't. Most people couldn't stand him, the only person who ever seemed to enjoy his company was John...and Donnie. He looked at him, into his deep, soulful emerald eyes and saw the kindness and acceptance that made him fall in love with him. But then his thoughts jerked back to John. John, with his clear blue eyes and sandy hair. Who fought in a war that made him shake with nightmares and jump at small noises. Who would run the empty streets of London with him, his laughter bouncing off the desolated buildings. Sherlock cleared his throat.
"That was very...spontaneous of you." He remarked, grabbing his glass with his long fingers.
"You used to like that," he said with a smile. He lifted his drink.
"To Meeting Again," he proclaimed. Sherlock rolled his eyes, it was cheesy as hell, buy it was so Donnie. They clincked glasses and tossed it back. It tasted like bleach and burned like fire. They slammed their glasses down, Sherlock shuttering slightly. Adonnis smiled at him. Jesus Christ he was handsome.
3:45
Where the hell were they?! John paced the flat, empty glass of whiskey in hand. It was three in the fucking morning! What could they possibly be doing? You know what their doing that little voice quipped. Involuntary, he thought of the Aussie's hands threaded through Sherlock's soft curls, their naked bodies pressed together and sweating.
"Christ," he muttered, snatching the liquor bottle off the counter and refilling his glass. He swished the expensive liquor around in his mouth, hating the taste but reveling in the burn. He heard footsteps. Shit! He scrambled into his chair and grabbed an old newspaper. He promptly threw it aside, noting that he looked like a father waiting for his daughter to get back from her first date. Was it obvious that he was waiting up for them? God he hoped not. He would just say...that...Mrs. Hudson late night vacuuming had woken him up. It was as weak excuse as any.
The door to the flat opened and Sherlock stood with his back to him, leaning against the doorframe.
"Can I come in?" Adonnis asked, his voice hopeful. John's fingers tightened around his glass.
"I don't think that would be...wise." You tell him Sherlock, John thought triumphantly.
"Why not?" This bitch had some nerve. Watson immediately flushed, he sounded just like Harry.
"It's just that, it's first time I've seen you in years and John's probably asleep..." He trailed off. You don't owe him an explanation, John thought angrily.
"I understand," fuck his politeness.
"When can I see again?" John's knuckles were white white, he was gripping his glass so hard. Sherlock laughed. Watson's hand began to cramp.
"I don't know, I have work and...don't get me wrong, I really do want to see you, I just have no time-"
"It's okay, here's my number, call me when you get some free time. Anytime works for me. Call me day or night." If he had been paying attention, John would have heard the glass cracking. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Adonnis take a step closer to Sherlock. His eyebrows narrowed. The Aussie leaned in close to him. The doctor clenched his teeth. He pressed a soft kiss to the corner of the detective's mouth. The glass broke, concaving into his hands, shards plummeting into his rough fingers.
"John is that you?" Sherlock called, his voice loud and worried. John grabbed the biggest piece that jutted from his flesh, gripped it, and ripped it out. His mouth opened, a scream ready to pour from him. He stifled it with a quiet groan.
"Uh, yea...I came down for a drink and dropped my glass." He called back, blood and whiskey dripping steadily from his hand.
"Are you alright?"
"Fine...I already have it cleaned up." He cradled his injury to his chest, grabbing the broken bits with his other and hurried to his room.