Deep somewhere in his mind, John expected Sherlock to jump back and restate his love of work. But Sherlock did no such thing. In fact, he did the opposite.
Their lips were pressing kindly on top of one another, not bothering to invade with tongue. But the tension was growing in the small cab. John has a problem though, he always has to find out what he doesn't know. And at that moment of facial contact, he wondered what that damn fruity drink tasted like. He risked it. As if licking his own lips, he snuck a taste into the wonderful mouth of Sherlock.
The detective gripped John's cheek, suddenly loving what he just felt. And John relished the taste. It was ever so sour and sweet. He welcomed Holmes' soft and gliding tongue as if he needed it. The kiss was no longer clean. It was ever deepening with a mixture of shared saliva and germs and everything Sherlock would normaly avoid.
Beep Beep. "Sorry to break this up, but-"
Sherlock pulled away and dug mindfully into his pocket, digging a good some of money out and thrusting it in the cabbies hand. "Here." He mumbled. His hand found the collar of John's shirt and his foot swiftly kick the cab door open. During no point had Sherlock or John looked away from each other or even dared looked at anything/anyone but each other.
John kicked the door closed once they were both standing and liplocked once again. It took a second but a bell rung in his head, "We just did tha- In front of..?" And comedically Sherlock shook his head, smiling and pecking a light kiss on his cheek. It was a test. That was a Hudson kiss. John immediately saw the logic in Sherlock's drunk mind.
No matter how twisted he may get, he will always be clever. "Sherlock?" He now blinked as Holmes did minutes ago.
Time skipped in patterns from then on. Like a strobe light. Memories of finding Sherlock's mouth again, finding his tongue, exploring the wetness of his mouth. The creaking steps, stumbling after one another. A fumbled key and squeaking door. Lips again. Now hands, more hands. Hands on clothing, hands unbuttoning, hands groping and searching. Voices yearning. Sweat dripping. Skin brushing skin and legs entangling legs.
Melodic. It was like an orchestra playing what it was rehearsing for months. And this orchestra has been eager to play for far too long.
The event. Sherlock and John had played their little game for hours, and weren't satisfied until it was properly over. With energy well spent, the drunk bodies took into a sleep. And it wasn't until another couple hours, still dead in the night, that John lifted his eyelids to see the porceleine skinned genius.
"Sherlock." John spoke, his words still tripping over themselves.
Holmes grinned, eyes still shut. "Watson?"
John blushed through a grin of his own. "And I am the buisiness suit guy."
Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head, shocked to see his own hand playing with the hair at John's nape. "What do you mean?"
John finds it difficult to look at his eyes, his blush peeking through harder. "In the bar, in the pub. You said he was utterly blind to love. Well, I am the buisiness man and I am not blind. I can clearly see it. I've always seen, and no matter what I may say... I always will." It was a promise that didn't need to be said, but sounded good enough to do anyway.
"We are drunk." Sherlock replied with the best of knowledge. It was not a half hearted ignorance to John's plea's of acceptance, Holmes just couldn't think of any other way to best represent the situation. John laid back down, finding a spot for his head on his friend's chest.
It took only minutes of Holmes stroking through his hair for Watson to drift back into a blissed slumber. Then, seconds for Sherlock to succumb to the heart beating of John's neck on his chest that chanted for sleep as well.
Is there a pain worse? I can nearly see the hangover and my eyes aren't even open. John thinks to himself as he slowly stretches his arms out. He flutters his eyes open then close, rethinking going back to sleep with the morning sun blinding him.
It is too early for thi- Wait. Where's my comforter? He searches blindly for his familiar sheet but is welcomed by a warm, smooth expanse of skin. Before frantically opening his eyes and looking for himself, he tries to remember if he picked anyone up. But he does dart his eyes open and sees.
And he sees more. Every slow millisecond his brain connects the foggy dots, or what dots it can connect. It doesn't take much.
Because. There is Sherlock, his FRIEND, nude naked lying ontop the array of bunched blankets. And the blankets are Sherlock's as well. John drops his jaw when finally seeing that he is in Sherlock's bed! Does he dare scan himself? He does. John's eyes wander quietly down himself and he is utterly bare of anything. Only the thin sheet over one leg and covering just enough of his own nakedness.
WHAT THE HELL!? He screams inside, biting his tongue so hard he hisses. Holmes shuffled to his side, another part of his body John wished to keep secret. And he knows, he just knows it will be considerably difficult slipping away to his own room unnoticed. He knows Sherlock will find out. One way or another, no detail will go unseen.
John puts a warm foot to the cold ground, just moving that small bit lets him know another large detail of last night. It doesn't take a doctor to realize that he was the... um, I was the bottom? John takes another blow to his breathing, and he's nearly in shakes now. He spots his boxers happily on the floor and snatches them, standing and pulling them on.
"Watson." Sherlock's voice whispers behind him, stating his name in such a way John cannot decipher if it is panick or delight. But John freezes nevertheless.
"Holmes."