Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, Moffat, or anyone else. If I did though, o.o
Author's note: Hullo, this is a rather short chapter, but I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless. I'm not so very content with this chapter, please bare with me. The other chapters will be worth it, I swear. Have fun! :)
30 minutes expanded into an hour, the hour into two and if Sherlock was to be true to himself, he had started enjoying himself. John had found delight in complementing Sherlock in the randomest times and the detective's mood was far better than the best.
It seemed that both men had jumped over their shadow this night. Sherlock didn't have scruples with drinking anymore, actually quite the opposite, and John had destroyed his heterosexual facade and had finally given in to his cravings for one of the Holmes' brothers. (And no it's not Mycroft, idiot. ;))
And after all they both felt happy with their decision, how could they not? This just felt too right to be wrong.
The later the day, the more drunk and sillier they got. Sherlock had his fun with deducing anybody John asked him for and the violinist was so drunk that he sometimes just made up the weirdest facts about people simply to make John laugh.
After some time John (mind you, not Sherlock) had the idea of teaching Sherlock some dance-moves which failed miserably. Sherlock was made for waltz but freestyle-dancing? Hell no. He'd rather eat one of Mycroft's umbrellas than having to freestyle any longer and his unenthusiastic wobbling made this pretty clear to John.
So instead the considerate doctor proposed another initiative to Sherlock. He told Sherlock to teach him how to waltz. Alas, they made their way through the dance-floor waltzing wildly and fastly so that they matched the rhythm, receiving weird looks from party-goers, which wasn't a rarity if you accompanied the great Sherlock Holmes.
It was a silly and comfortable way to spend an evening.
But the comfiness didn't last too long, at least not for Sherlock. The reason for this was that John insisted on him singing, actually singing in front of all these people! And John didn't even have an appropriate reason for this, aside from the fact that John apparently seemed to have a thing for Sherlock's voice.
Sherlock exceedingly didn't want to do this, but then there was his little John who had been pleading for, well about 20 minutes now? His eyes looked like little buttons and to Sherlock he was just one huge ball of cuteness and kittens, how could John be able to do this to him?
As a consequence Sherlock now had an inner conflict, Hooray ! Thanks very much John. And his state of drunkenness didn't help him in any way either.
So Sherlock made a simple and easy decision, but one he knew he would most likely regret later. He sang. And if it was only to make John happy.
To hell with this all.
They stumbled out of the café laughing and bickering like little school girls, swaying and leaning onto each other for support. Sherlock was still humming one of his songs he sang, but singing was more of an overestimation at this point, it was something that "could" be called lulling but even that was debateable.
You may have got it by now, they were drunk like shit.
John was astonished about what a nice voice Sherlock had and impressed about how self-confident Sherlock had looked on stage, though John had seen Sherlock's hand tremble slightly, a clear sign for anxiety. Still Sherlock stood there as a rock against the shore, with a few people cheering, how could they not?
But Sherlock's voice had had the most massive impact on John and had entirely blown his mind. It was so crisp, clear, dark and so beautiful and warm it could probably melt ice. It had been an awesome idea to force Sherlock into doing it and he regretted it not one bit.
Yes, Sherlock had perhaps been frightened to death, but the outcome of it had been amazing.
However his train of thought was disturbed by Sherlock's way too loud voice, which was shouting out for a taxi and immediately getting one, as usual.
So they climbed, or rather fell, into a cab, blubbering like tiny infants. Their cabbie must've gone through hell and back with them, the only possibility when you have to bear these two morons.
They dropped off at Baker Street and rushed into the flat as if they were driven by another hound dog. The little time they had left until they completely lost control of themselves and merely started molesting each other was spent in ripping their clothes off and spreading them all over the flat.
The pair of them almost couldn't keep it together in the cab and now wasn't a place to start with that either. The longing stares and slight, soft touches had been teasing them all throughout the ride and had made them pulsing for each other's bodies, sending heat through them all the time.
It was too much to put up with and the drinking destroyed the last dignity they still had left.
They barely made it to the bed and John started to bite Sherlock's neck right away, but was cut short by the almost moaning detective. "Joh...John-Do, do you really want to do this? Not that I'd complain, but..." "Shhhh... Sherlock. I want nothing in the whole bloody world more than you, understood?" "Hmmm..."
What happened next is left to your imagination. ;)
Another author's note: I am sorry if you came here for the slash, but I am not and never was one for writing it, especially if my best friend and my sister are reading as well. :) Sorry!
