Dragging John up to 221B was a lot harder than expected. He may wake up with a bruised knee from when he nearly fell down the stairs. I ended up picking him up by placing my arms around his back and under his knees, carrying him carefully to our room. I tried to set him down in his own bed, but he just about screamed in drunken protest so I slumped him on my bed, where he seemed much more content. I slid him under my blankets and pulled the duvet over him gingerly.

As I turned to change into my sleepwear, I felt a tug on the back of my shirt, as firm as when John was trying to keep me at that accursed social event that he deemed "fun" and I turned around.

Oh, no, Sherlock. You're not going to give in.

That little lost puppy look is only the result of alcohol. Do not give in to it.

I sighed and turned to him and sat on the edge of my bed, staring expectantly. Alright, you got me. What? John giggled a bit and patted the space next to him. NO. SHERLOCK. DON'T.

I laid down next to John and folded my arms. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. I shouldn't have given in this easily. John rolled over and faced me, and began drunkly mumbling incoherently.

"John, I know you're hopelessly drunk, and I'm going to have to deal with you in the morning, but dear god, make real sentences, I KNOW you can. You used it to call me "pretty" which I will be forgetting because I found the comment a bit strange." I ranted, then looked at John stare at me, confused. I rolled my eyes. "god John. Must I treat you like a five-year-old? Make big sentence John." I enunciated clearly, and he nodded to show understanding.

"You're pretty when your speaking hole moves a lot like that, Sheeeerly" John giggled and I stared at him. Did he just call me Sherly? He'll pay for that. "y'know, I like boys the same way I like girlsss."

I rolled my eyes. Obviously, by the way his pupils are slightly dilated, he's the kind of drunk that gets very lustful when intoxicated, and is trying to come onto me by giving me the idea of a possible relationship. I should go get him some water to help deal with his inevitable hangover tomorrow morning-

All thought processes stopped as John's hand palmed me through my trousers and began kissing my neck clumsily. I blinked, trying to restart the hard drive and tried to move away quickly and efficiently without disturbing John too much. No such luck as he moved his hand from my crotch to my hip and pulling me against him. Why did this have to happen to me?

I heard a door open and panicked. John didn't care or didn't notice and began climbing on top of me, making this look a lot worse than it really was. Gladly, it was only Lestrade-

And Mycroft. Of course Mycroft was here, he said earlier he'd be around to bug my dorm as soon as he found it. This looked really bad, the way John was straddling my hips and kissing my neck made it look very, very wrong. I tried to wiggle out of his iron grasp and had no success and decided to try harder to get him off of me.

I saw Mycroft fully take in what was happening and started laughing, then took out his camera phone.

No, Mycroft, NO. Oh. He took the damn picture. I counted the taps on his phone and decided he was probably sending it to myself to mock me. He carried on bugging John and I's room, while he made no attempt to help his younger brother. Lestrade, though, figured it out eventually and finally pulled John off of me. I sighed with relief and got up swiftly, then straightened my shirt out.

I spent the rest of my evening following Mycroft around, removing the small cameras and microphones as he went along, making him have to start over again until I gave up. Which I didn't. It wasway too funny watching Mycroft squirm under the watchful eye of his ex, Lestrade, whom he still obviously wanted back and having Lestrade feel uncomfortable because he still had feelings for my elder brother. It was actually humorous.

When Mycroft finally gave up, he huffed out of the room, and I shut the door behind him loudly. I heard silent snoring (barely noticeable) and figured John went to sleep, hopefully in his own bed. I quickly thanked Lestrade before sighing and getting ready to climb into Johns bed, seeing as mine was occupied, but Lestrade stopped me.

He pulled me back and stared at me from the side, taking some kind of interest on my neck where John's soft, moist lips had once deliciously had been placed. I cleared my throat. No sentiment.

"Sherlock," Lestrade paused "you have a bruise on your neck." I glanced at him and rushed to the washroom to get a look in the mirror. Sure enough, a dark spot had appeared in surprising contrast to my much paler skin, making it more obvious. I hadn't gotten punch or hit anywhere near there, meaning, when John had started really using that mouth of his…

He left a mark.

I could've gotten up and not told John what happened, but this mark had changed everything. If John, or ANYONE saw this mark, he would be worse off than before, the harassment rising to a more personal level. A level that involved John, which I will not tolerate. Nobody can know.

John POV

I woke up with a splitting headache but in a place that was most certainly not my side of the room. What happened last night? Why am I in Sherlock's bed? I blinked and looked at the clock. I groaned and turned over, then turned back over and looked at the clock. Class started an hour and a half ago! I almost sprang out of bed when I felt a warm hand gently press on my chest and push me back down.

"Calm down, John." Sherlock whispered, even though it sounded like he was talking normally. Ugh. "I emailed your teachers and mine, informing them we both have a temperature and food poisoning from drinking expired milk. We're excused from classes today. I'll take care of whatever you need me for. Your hangover from getting properly piss drunk last night is going to just get worse. I'll try not to make too much noise." Sherlock spoke as clearly and slowly as possible, facing mostly away from me.

"Thank you, Sherlock. That was very kind of you." I smiled as best I could and laid back down, relaxing more. I saw Sherlock place a glass of water when I he thought I had my eyes closed and when he turned away, I saw a dark purpling bruise on his neck, barely peeking over the collar of his button down. My eyes fluttered open and I weakly grabbed his wrist and pulled him a bit closer.

"Sherlock, what's on your neck? Did someone hit you while I was drunk?" I got a bit angry with myself until Sherlock blushed a bit.

"Ah, no, actually, this is a love bite." Sherlock twisted his wrist out of my grip and tried to escape until I kicked my leg out from under the blanket and hooked my foot around his knee, making him fall backwards onto the floor next to the bed with a grunt.

"Sherlock, who did that?" I smirked "A pretty girl? Get lucky last night, Sherlock?" I grinned more mischievously as his eyes flickered with panic and he fought off a blush.

"Of course not. It was a very drunk male individual who must've thought I was some girl. I don't know him. I just bumped into him when fetching you. Nothing big, John, I'm still a virgin" Sherlock laughed awkwardly. He got up and brushed off his pants from being on the ground.

Sherlock's a virgin? My thoughts went on a hormonal rampage, as my weak, hung over brain could not keep the sexually frustrating fantasies from pouring out into my subconscious. Can you not imagine how impossibly tight Sherlock must be? And how easily he would reach his climax from just a few simple-

God, John Hamish Watson, stop this right now. Yes, you are a bisexual individual who believes Sherlock Holmes is impossibly attractive. Who wouldn't? They just never got to see this caring side of Sherlock. I mean, if everyone knew he would blow off his classes just to take care of you, they'd know how actually very sweet the man is, and how caring he can be. He appears cold, but he has just never willed himself to be nice to others like he is to me. Maybe he's just repaying me for helping him and being his friend.

Sherlock was, no doubt, a very cold and unforgiving man. As Lestrade put it, "Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and one day, he might even be a good one" which I believe describes him perfectly. He's obviously an abslute prick at a lot of instances, like when he'd reduced our Literature teacher to a crying, tattered, and broken woman after he so graciously decided he did not like her as a professor and decided to reveal to the whole class that she whores herself out on some nights behind her husbands back, and had learned only recently that her husband was cheating on her this entire time, so she began doing heroine. She was fired, and sobbing the whole way to her car, and possibly all the way home.

But the way he treats me, like I'm his actual friend, is much more caring and kind. He stayed in the room, obviously boring himself as he'd already taken three showers to occupy himself, when he could be doing his schoolwork (which he enjoyed) and deducing everyone who walked by as a form of entertainment in-between classes. He COULD be out there, BUT he's in here, now making us both tea.

There's much more to Sherlock Holmes than just a hard shell. I think if everyone knew that, he'd be much more well-liked.

"Do you want to move back to your original bed? I mean you could stay in mine again if you're not feeling well enough to get up, or if you just plain old don't want to. I mean you seemed like you would much rather be in my bed last night." Sherlock chuckled. "You were hilarious."

I scowled playfully at him. We'd been talking idly all day, about two conversations in which he told me about how Lestrade and Mycroft rudely barged in when you were trying to put me to bed. He also told me about some "somewhat attractive female" who was snogging me mercilessly until I pushed her away. We laughed and talked throughout the day.

I couldn't help but feel like something was missing from his stories from last night, I just couldn't put my finger on it.