At some stage that night, we stumbled into the next bar – a 'specialist' bar – a gay bar, the name of it bleached out by streetlamps and drunkenness. I don't think Sherlock realised at first; probably saw but did not observe until were surrounded by neon and shirtless men. He paused in the doorway, eyes darting, then rationalised that it was the next place on the list and so could not simply be ignored. I followed behind, just focussed on getting the next drink.

We found alcohol and settled at a table in one corner, blissfully unaware that it was more of a booth, if you catch my meaning. The implication and assumptions were obvious, but at least we were left alone.

Fuelled by music that thumpa-thumped and spirits that kept on flowing (his earlier attempts to moderate our drinking was drowned out by his disillusion), I must have been swaying. The world was watered down and logic seemed a distant memory, or else I would have undoubtedly awkwardly downed one drink and asked to leave. But still – his perplexion was divine amusement.

He stared into the orgy of dancers as though deducing every sweat stain and sidelong glance, and every subtle suggestion followed by a couple vanishing behind a closed door, but then he would turn away into his glass, his eyes glazed. In the dim light he seemed to glow through with internal half-hearted debate. I don't think he reached a single conclusion that night: and that made me grin in satisfaction.

Sherlock Holmes: stumped by such a vast spectacle of homosexuality..!

I followed the movements of two blokes to pass the time awaiting refills – a tall, swished-back man, bordering between sultry and seduced, and a rather determined-looking blonde eying him across the room. Their sexual tension trumped everyone else's. As Dubstep after Dubstep played (with myself astounded by how anyone could dance to such noise), the two gravitated together, their moves between a fit and a fu- ah, you know what I mean, until at last the brunette leaned down to his ear, whispering something that brought a look of achievement and compliance to the other man's expression. They took one another non-committally by the hand, fingertips just holding together as they slunk to a dark corner, where the younger blonde leaned back against the wall almost teasingly, while the other stroked a hand behind his ear before abruptly kissing him, bolding making out with him, tongues abound, and I had to turn away, cheeks somewhat flushed.

It took a while in my hazy stupor to realise that not only had I been staring, but that Sherlock had been too. Blinkingly he looked away, and I watched him not look at me. We were sat across from each other on this tiny, low table, and only now did I notice that our knees were touching, indeed pressing together in our inebriated need to lean. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, clearing my throat and repressing a belch.

Suddenly I wanted to question him on sex. Wanted to find out about him personally, and about what he knew, or more importantly, what he didn't; it has always been a limitless source of curiosity and bafflement for me to find out his ignorance, when he knew everything else, and yet something to simple as this? But of course, he never knows what he doesn't know, or else he'd make sure he knew it.

I wanted to ask him – and apparently, I did.

"So. Have you ever?" I slurred, spluttering at the words I was saying.

"Ever what?" he answered, less sharply than when he's sober.

"Well, you know." I nodded briefly to the couple, by now all over one another in a blur of lust, about to be asked to leave or move to the bathrooms.

"Kissed someone?" he suggested rather dubiously, frowning at me.

"And the rest," I murmured, taking a sip of froth, eyebrows raised.

He paused for a long while, watching me swallow with an almost obscene fascination. Finally he uttered, "No. But I know how."

Maybe he'd read about it; I'd have to check if we owned a copy of 'Fifty Shades of Grey'. (We didn't. Must've been for a case.) "Oh really?" I teased, sniggering. "Do tell."

He leaned across the table and I felt his knee jar against mine again, this time to busy watching the light play in his bleary blue eyes to notice, caught between wanting to move away and closer at the same time. Screw it, I must have thought, the dangerous phrase for any drunken man, and leaned forward for the fun of it.

"I could show you," he whispered, his voice hollow with seriousness, drawling over the notion... I stared at him, suddenly more alert, and- then he snickered and beamed.

I snapped out of my delirium and slapped his arm jokingly, laughing with him. "You are so drunk."

"Ehh, so are you."

"Not that drunk."

"Oh really?"

Now who was getting sassy? I quite liked this new, drunk Holmes. Maybe I really liked him, even. Which was why I clicked my tongue and then suggested willingly, "Alright then. Gay chicken. You know how to play?"

"Of course."

"No you don't. What you do is try to come as close to kissing as possible before you wuss out and back off. Whoever chickens out first, loses. Got it?"

"I knew before..." he lied, and then took another deep swig of his drink, gulping it down loudly. "Okay, ready."

I giggled childishly, remembering all those times as teens when gay chicken was mentioned like a cultist ritual. Anyone who partook in it was instantly dubbed "curious" – and now there was no denying that I was. Had I considered that Sherlock had no concept of awkwardness, I may have been less confident that I'd win. I set down my pint and grinned. "Since you started all this, after you."

Sherlock seemed to consider his approach for a moment as though this was a tactical skill rather than social bashfulness, and then slowly leaned back over the table towards me, swaying ever so slightly as he reached out an unsteady hand, floating in the air before landing on my right shoulder. I sniggered despite myself, but he only smiled. My move: I shifted closer, hitching myself to the edge of my seat, my knee nesting in between his thighs. We watched each other, waiting for the other to break away, while still constantly drawing nearer. He tipped his head slightly, like a flinch, and my heart skipped a beat. He was going by the book. Maybe he did know what he was doing. Maybe he wasn't going to back down. But I couldn't lose gay chicken to him! Closer and closer, centimetres rapidly vanishing between us. I had to shake him; there was no hesitation in his gaze now. I licked my lips. He didn't flinch. Found myself staring at his lips, trying to find something that would make him stop. Reached out my left hand, stroked it over his cheekbone, watching him smirk a little. He knew how hard I was trying. He knew it wasn't going to work. His face was hot but not with embarrassment. Soon his lips were too close for my eyes to focus anymore, instead just studying his fluttering eyelashes, feeling their gentle flickers. Anxiety told me to pull away. Was I actually going to do this? No, he'd pull back. He'd chicken out; it was just a matter of time. It wasn't logical. It wasn't him. I held on and so did he, and I could feel his gentle breath on my cheek, so measured and calm; I had to freak him out so I traced down his jaw-line, brushing my index finger over his lower lip. But he didn't pull back. And I didn't pull back. And he didn't move away. And I didn't move away. Neither of us stopped.

For a split second, I remember thinking, what if?

And the next thing I knew, I was kissing Sherlock Holmes. His lips were thin and soft, with a delicate intensity I couldn't understand, force applied to a textbook perfect amount if there ever were such a thing, and his wide eyes almost mockingly slid shut, before, shamelessly, so did my own. It took a moment. A moment, a fraction of a second, and I found myself enraptured. I tugged him closer as hormones and impulses and feelings I wasn't meant to feel for my best man flooded through my alcohol-filled veins, parting slightly to nip at his top lip, urged on my desire. His knowledge ended here: he started to mumble something, and almost cheekily I took the opportunity, and his murmur became a quiet hum as my tongue met his and I felt his cheeks burning. He went to pull back now, out of his depth and unsure, but now I wouldn't let him, my other hand nestling into his hair and tugging slightly. Arousal hit me at full force, and suddenly I realised I hadn't just been watching those guys to pass the time: I had been jealous.

When he realised there was no point in fighting against a determined soldier (well, army doctor, but I've made my point) he edged even closer to me, holding my upper arms in his firm grasp, his thighs pressed tight around my leg, flicking his tongue up serpent-like to push mine back, going taking the lead and myself about to let him, but for a breathless moment we held each other in between, panting slightly before sniggering and realising what we were doing, but only for a moment before again we were enthralled by one another, the urge to drag him up onto the table becoming irresistible; the game no longer mattered; the pub crawl no longer mattered: I wanted to take him home and let the night unfold, irrelevant of the morning after.

So overwhelmed with attraction, I was no longer fussed with denying anything. Right there, right then, in a drunken boldness I suppose, people could talk however much they wanted. And that was the way it was to be ever after – my heart was lost. I was blinded by long-overdue relief from my own feverish denial. My body was overwhelmed with the cravings I had repressed since the day I met the bloody man, and here we were in some gay bar half way across London. Tastelessly I considered the appeal of the bathroom, but couldn't bring myself to do it; I wasn't that drunk. I had to push him away, as soon as I did longing to be entangled in his kiss again – but I knew we had to get somewhere private.

His eyes remained shut for some while, while he struggled to rationalise what had just happened. I was still clinging to him, wanting to drag him out of here, stumbling into a cab and get back to 221B as soon as possible. But I held down my desire; I had waited, what, four years? I could wait a little longer. I'd never kissed anyone like that. It had never felt like that before. Probably because this was Sherlock sodding Holmes; it was like flying on a plane where you didn't quite know if the pilot knew how to control the thing. And yes, in the simile, that's a bad situation to be in and you're probably going to die. But in reality... it was the same reason I had always been drawn to him: the never knowing what was going to happen next, but knowing it would be mind-blowingly fascinating, and likely brilliantly dangerous. My heart was racing, and my hands blissfully still. I watched him, waiting with bated breath for him to react, and grant me more.

And after a painfully long wait, without looking at me and still uneasy, he whispered, "Baker Street?"

As he opened his eyes that had never glistened so much, an excitement far greater than the most deliciously complicated case lighting him up. I jumped at the suggestion. Of course I did.

The cabbie must have suspected something; I knew he did. We didn't say a word. Didn't look at one another. Fidgeting with our hands, staring resolutely at the back of the drivers' seat. I know he thought something. I tried to think what he thought to calm myself down. He either thought we were awkwardly waiting to get home so we could get together and his being here was totally in the way of our plans (true), or we were having some kind of lover's spat that would explode in private, or we had just committed a murder and didn't know how to not act suspiciously so were saying nothing. Either way he knew something would go on behind that closed door. I wondered if he'd linger on the curb, curious.

We hardly made it through that door, Sherlock instantly turning and pushing me back against the wall, slamming it with his heel, ravenously kissing at my neck, while I murmured between a giggle and a groan before spluttering and hissing, "Mrs Hudson!" And we stumbled up the stairs after one another, barely resisting the urge to turn back and grab him after every step, just about making it into the apartment before I buried my hands beneath his coat and pushed it back off him, tugging him closer by his scarf with a snigger as his eyes widened and his speeding mind juddered to a halt as I slipped the loop away, dropping it drifting to the ground, as again he nipped and sucked at my collarbone, till I had to push him away again, breathless and blushing and burning through my clothes. He tugged my jumper off over my head, attacking the buttons of my shirt impatiently, struggling to deduce my every sigh and snicker as I returned the gesture, hardly trusting my eyes and my hands until I was finally able to lay my hands on his chest, his heart beat pounding rapidly. I wanted him. Never had I wanted anything this badly. I spun his round and shoved him stumbling back down onto the sofa, dragging down his trousers before he could regain himself, eagerly going for his black briefs, when suddenly he lurched to his feet, panther-like and faster than most who are not-entirely sober, kicking off his shoes and shaking himself free of clothing, myself entranced to watch as he fluidly twisted me round, his speed slowing as he realised I wasn't resisting, like a fight in slow motion, one palm pressed between my shoulder blades guiding me up against this wall, his fingertips burning down the curve of my back and hitching into my trousers, dropping to his knees behind me and resting his forehead in the small of my spine, his hot breath trickling down my skin as he dragged away my belt, and took my boxers with him too, and I gulped hard, pressing my head to the wall and clenching my jaw; he didn't know, he- he couldn't, that wasn't something... logical or...

But he did know, or at least, he did. I panted shortly, feeling a rush of arousal that seized all my limbs and left me flushed, burning up; his tongue was so quick, so gentle but so violent, and I couldn't help heartily rejecting everything that was going on and refusing to think but God, it felt so good, and I forgot how to breathe suddenly, and everything faded for a moment into just the sound of my thumping pulse, and the sensation of flying; I could hear him shifting, feel his hands prickling with sweat holding onto my hips slipping, and when he hummed slightly I could have passed out from the aural pleasure; right then, he was my god. When he finally stood again I could hardly feel anything, so overwhelmed by the sensation, I was pressed against the wall for support nearly drooling, and then suddenly I felt his chest pressed against my back, his waist hitched close to my own, and I was awake again, every inch of his body hot against my own as he leaned into my neck again, this time biting down tenderly, me tipping my head away to allow him to continue while clenching my jaw against moaning out loudly, and he bit down harder. Testing me. I gasped and groaned forcefully, and that seemed to please him, reassuring him he was doing alright, when he had already exceeded all my expectations; I was getting desperate, my hands clawing at the wall, my eyes tightly shut, trying to relax my body when all it did was tense and plead. I heard his underwear whisper to his ankles. When he wrapped his slim fingers around my waist, pressing into my abdomen as if giving warning, I had had no idea what it meant to brace one's self; I knew then; I wasn't about to struggle, I was a moment away from begging, sweat beading on my forehead, any last-minute protestation having died in my throat before I could stop him.

I managed a whimper and a hiss before my knees buckled violently, urging me to lean more against the wall, and him to hold me up with unlikely force, my cheek pressed against the cool of the wallpaper as I panted raggedly and flinched, and as soon as he started rocking I completely lost control, ablaze with arousal and panting and drooling and hearing his raw grunts all around me like a lightning storm, each time striking deeper than the last, hearing him murmur my name as he started to lean on me, working his hips and kissing my shoulders absent-mindedly, whispering... something, over and over... and I tried to listen, I tried so hard, tried to keep myself calm but every time I moaned, longingly, every time I heard his voice, dark in my ear, and then he jerked and jolted and in an instant I nearly blacked out from restraint, somehow just managing to cling on, grasping tight at his hands and snatching them from my waist, holding them tight until... until he, inexperienced, trembling, body lurching-

"John-?!"

I'll never forget the uncertainty in his voice, the sound of his climax rippling through me, the feeling of everything overwhelming me a fraction of a second after, pulsing through my body, tearing through me as I tried to grab myself in a desperate last attempt to control myself but to no avail, and afterwards I slumped dizzy against the wall, his arms around me and his shaking hands tight around my own. He was still babbling something, something smart I was sure, but I couldn't stop laughing. We toppled back till we found the sofa, grunting and biting my tongue as he withdrew, too exhausted to remember to breathe until I spluttered into a giggle again. Sherlock was still baffled, breathing uneasily, holding onto me as though I was the meaning of life.

After who knows how long, when reality had settled back to where it belonged, still giddy and unable to meet one another's eyes, I swear I heard him murmur,

"So... Did I win?"

What am I doing? I can't put this in my blog...

Still, it was fun to type it all up, I guess. God... How far we've come, huh?

Ctrl A backspace

Let's keep this between us, shall we?