It took John five tries to get the door to the flat open.
When he finally did, he let out a triumphant cry of victory and stumbled up the stairs.
He was somewhat aware that something was wrapped around his head—a tie, he discovered—and wasn't quite sure how getting a pint with Greg to catch up and complain about Sherlock had turned into stumbling over the words to Danny Boy with a hoard of people he'd never met before.
John really hadn't wanted to go to the pub with Greg at first. He'd always been a bit tentative around beer, after seeing what it'd done to Harry, but had reluctantly agreed, since it meant an entire night away from one extremely bored, extremely irritable detective. One night out couldn't be too bad.
He'd had three pints by the time Greg challenged him to a drinking contest.
He'd forgotten how to count by the time he got home.
It was a wonder that he was still conscious.
"Sh'lock?" he called out into the seemingly empty flat. It had to have been about two in the morning; Sherlock was normally still awake. "Sherlock? 'M home."
He was answered by the muffled sound of Sherlock's voice coming from his flatmate's bedroom.
John staggered towards the detective's room, just to let him know that he'd made it home safe (contrary to Sherlock's earlier belief), humming the tune to Danny Boy as he did so. He rapped sharply on the door, pushed it open, and stopped dead in his tracks at the sight before him.
Sherlock panting. Sherlock rolling around uncomfortably. Sherlock moaning.
Was he sick? John vaguely remembered that he was a doctor and entered the room. Maybe he could help.
"Sherlock?" he whispered hoarsely. "You sick?"
"John," came the groggy response. "Need you."
"Here, Sherlock. 'M here. 'M a doctor, Sherlock. You will survive."
Sherlock unconsciously gripped his sheets; sweat beading on his forehead. "Need…John. Need you." Suddenly he stilled and went rigid, his back arching ever so slightly and a near silent gasp escaping his lips. "God, John. Yes, John."
John's mouth hung open.
Well.
This was an interesting turn of events.
John wasn't sure what to do. The still-functioning responsible part of him told him to leave the room immediately and forget what he'd seen, but the curious, inebriated part of him dared him to stay, to see what would happen next. Something uncomfortable settled in his stomach, and he was fairly sure that it wasn't the beer.
"Sherlock?" he murmured to himself, taking a few more steps towards the bed. "The hell…"
Sherlock let out an extremely loud groan, and John felt heat rushing both to his face and the opposite direction at the mere sound of it.
He shouldn't be here.
He really shouldn't be here.
What if Sherlock were to wake up? That would make for one hell of a dinner conversation. He shifted his weight and the floor creaked unnecessarily loudly beneath him.
All of a sudden, Sherlock's eyes flew open and he blinked up at the ceiling. John froze, paralyzed. Sherlock turned towards John with half-closed eyes, and his brow furrowed.
"John?" he asked, his voice heavy with sleep. "What're you doing here? My room." John fidgeted, looking for a reasonable explanation other than I heard you calling my name in your sleep it sounded like fun please do it again. Maybe he could get out of this without Sherlock actually knowing he was there. Aha! John applauded himself for being a genius.
"Er, you're…dreaming?" he suggested clumsily, raising an eyebrow. "Just a dream."
The grin Sherlock gave him then sent something down John's spine and he had to repress a shudder.
"Excellent," Sherlock breathed, reaching out for John. Suddenly, John found himself sitting on the edge of the bed.
He definitely shouldn't be here.
Sherlock sat up and grabbed two handfuls of John's jumper, pulling him in close and attacking John's mouth with his own.
John let out a surprised yelp, his eyes wide and his breath momentarily escaping him. This was not happening. He was straight and Sherlock was…Sherlock and this was wrong on so many levels, but John didn't really have any clue what was going on and his mind was fuzzy anyways and Sherlock's lips were so soft and he was warm and just so Sherlock that John found himself parting his lips willingly and wrapping his arms about the detective.
Sherlock hummed affirmatively and slid one ice-cold hand up under John's shirt while the other made quick work of his trousers. John was growing harder by the second and was soon moaning shamelessly, sucking Sherlock's bottom lip into his mouth. They remained like that for a while, John devouring Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock's hands wandering everywhere before Sherlock broke away and latched onto John's neck, pushing John down onto the bed beneath him. John giggled at the sensation, one hand finding Sherlock's hair.
"Soft," John noted, petting Sherlock's head, "like a kitten. My little Sherlock kitten." He began to giggle again, but Sherlock pulled away and his hands stilled.
"Have you been drinking, John?" he asked, eyeing John suspiciously. John shook his head fervently, but his guilty smile gave him away. Sherlock rolled his eyes and proceeded to roll off of John and push him away. "I'm not touching you if you're drunk."
"Too late for that," John mumbled. He leaned towards him in search of Sherlock's mouth again, but was pushed away unceremoniously.
"No."
John, unreasonably disappointed, searched for an excuse; because now he really needed this.
"But…er…dream. Remember? Not actually drunk."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Out." He gestured towards the door. John sighed exaggeratedly and lifted himself off the bed, trudging across the room. Bipolar prick. He turned around to say goodnight but Sherlock was already curled up in his blankets, and John didn't want to disturb him.
"Pretty," he murmured to himself, leaving the room.
XX
The next morning, John was miserable. His head was throbbing and he had coughed up what felt like every meal he had ever eaten into the toilet. He sat there pathetically for a few moments before getting up to brush his teeth.
He tried to walk himself through the events of last night, but all he could remember was singing, watching a very drunk and very angry Greg Lestrade throw his shoes at someone, and then he was home.
He definitely did not remember receiving the bruise on his neck he was now sporting. John leaned in closer to the mirror, prodding the purple skin and trying as hard as he could to recall where he had gotten it and who exactly he'd gotten it from.
Had he slept with someone last night? Or tried to, at least? That's not very John Watson, he thought. That's just not what he did. But, it would explain the almost painful erection he had woken up to, and...
"Morning, John." Sherlock brushed past the bathroom door towards the kitchen. John stared after him, racking his brain in an attempt to figure out why exactly the sound of Sherlock's velvet, baritone voice was now sending shivers down his spine. He was too tired for this. Sherlock was supposed to be the detective, not John.
He followed Sherlock into the living room and slumped down into his armchair with an exasperated huff. He massaged his temples, willing his pounding headache to go away.
"You look terrible," Sherlock's voice sounded from the kitchen. John looked up angrily, though the glare he was giving his flatmate only worsened his headache. Sherlock was turning a spoon around in his fingers, scrutinizing John warily. He returned to stirring his tea before trotting into the living room, newspaper tucked under his arm. He sat in the armchair across from John's and unfolded his paper, though kept his attention on John.
"And?" John challenged. Of course there wasn't any tea for John. There was never any tea for John unless he got it himself. Lazy sack of-
"Where were you last night?" Sherlock asked monotonously, seemingly bored already.
"The pub," John replied in his you're-supposed-to-be-the-genius tone he found himself using more and more frequently, "with Greg. Exactly what I said I'd be doing." Sherlock hummed, clearly done with the conversation as he turned to his paper. "'Course you weren't listening."
After a few moments of much appreciated silence, Sherlock turned abruptly towards John.
"What did you say?" His piercing gaze seemed to bore holes through John's skull.
"I said that you weren't listening?" He offered. "Wh-"
"No. Before that," Sherlock cut him off. He looked desperate, almost scared.
"That I was at the pub. With Greg. Where I said I'd be," John said carefully.
"And you were drunk when you returned home? You'd been…drinking?"
Have you been drinking, John?
There was something he could remember from last night. Just the tiniest murmur of a voice in the back of his head. He could remember someone's mouth, someone's hands, someone's soft and eerily familiar hair.
"That's what one typically does when they go to a pub," he joked, suddenly very uncomfortable as the memories from last night slowly started becoming more clear. He glanced over at Sherlock, who seemed unsure of what to do with his hands. First they were wringing nervously, then they were scrubbing over his forehead, then they were running through and tugging madly at his hair as though he wanted to pull it out. "You all right?" John asked.
Sherlock pointed at him. "What did you do as soon as you came home?"
John squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember. "Dunno," he answered honestly. "I came in and I heard something but I can't remember what it was."
John…Need you.
There it was again. That deep, commanding voice that was oddly similar to…
Oh no.
Oh no oh no oh no.
"Sherlock…" John began slowly. "What were you doing last night?"
Sherlock's eyes widened for a brief moment in an expression John could only classify as panic. He stared at the bruise on John's neck, an expression of sheer terror adorning his features.
"But I was dreaming," he breathed.
"Apparently you weren't," John chuckled awkwardly.
"I…I'm sorry, John," Sherlock mumbled. "I didn't mean…I don't…I want to…" he trailed off.
Despite the horrible timing, John sorted and burst out laughing. He laughed until his eyes began to water and his sides hurt. He could tell that Sherlock looked a cross between fuming and mortified, but he couldn't stop himself.
"S-sorry," John giggled. "It's just…I don't think I'm ever drinking again." Sherlock stared at the ground.
"So you're saying you made a mistake," he said quietly. He looked almost…hurt. "I understand. Really. If you want to move out I can help you pack." He paused, twiddling his thumbs. "If you're not repulsed by the very sight of me."
"Oh, god," John huffed, staring at the ceiling and wiping his eyes. "You're so melodramatic. I'm not going to leave, Sherlock. What I meant is," he took a deep breath, "what I meant is, I'll be able to remember what happens. Next time."
Now it wasn't just the events of last night he could recall. He realized that he had wanted it, and Sherlock had obviously wanted it, and, Christ…did he really? Yes, he definitely still wanted it. Wasn't this just one hell of a twenty four hours?
"Next time?" Sherlock gasped, looking up at John with wide eyes.
"Of course. In fact, we should start immediately." John tried to keep his face straight as the elation was made evident on Sherlock's. "And I think," John grinned, standing up and making his way over to Sherlock's armchair, "that we should pick up," he sat down on top of him, "where we left off." His arms rested on either side of Sherlock's head and he leaned in, brushing their lips together. Sherlock looked a bit dazed when John pulled away, and John classified that as a win. "Do you agree?"
Sherlock nodded fervently, apparently at a loss for words. "Are you sure?" he asked, looking up at John expectantly.
"Of course I am." John began to fumble with the buttons on Sherlock's shirt. "After all," he placed kisses along the man's jawline until he reached his ear, "I am the man of your dreams."
Sherlock slapped him.