An hour later, they had settled in to a surprisingly cosy and easy-going evening. Sherlock had lit a crackling fire, the curtains were closed, the lights were dim, and a wonderful gloomy warmth had banished the sub-zero blackness outside. London might as well have been a byword for some far-distant, mythical and hostile place.
John had said "We're gonna regret this," three times, and Sherlock had grinned in agreement each time. They had started off with a fruit-flavoured beer each, which John had been given the previous Christmas. It was vile.
Sherlock had soon whipped out his private collection of Japanese sake, and they were now a few glasses in, sitting together on the sofa.
Whilst Sherlock had been heating up the drinks (for authenticity, apparently), John had flicked the TV on to a music channel, and they were now watching some sort of 'countdown of the 80's.' It was fucking brilliant.
It was easier now he'd had his outburst, and the small thimble-like cups that Sherlock had set out drew his attention away from Def Leppard, but now there wasn't much holding his attention because he was already feeling the fuzzy effects. He watched as the man poured the cups full once more.
"I don't know if I like this," he said, even though he accepted another thimble full. "It's got a really strong aftertaste. And it's warm."
"All the better to inib- in-ee-briate you with," Sherlock quipped, snuffling with laughter. He was surprisingly lightweight when it came to alcohol, something that had always tickled the doctor. "John, money. It costs money, so it's good. Do you want to know how much money we have," he chuckled, before bopping his head to the intro of a Spandeau Ballet track.
"Well hopefully enough to cover the gas bill," John replied, unable to stop a ridiculous high-pitched laugh before covering his mouth with the back of his hand. "Why..." He cleared his throat. "Why do we have so much money, and yet nothing in the fridge but gone-off yoghurt and fingers?"
"Because we're so...metro, John," Sherlock said, flouncing his hands dramatically. He typed a number in his phone with slightly trembly, long fingers, and gave it to John. "Text 'FUNDS' to this number. It tells you how much we've got."
John obeyed, sent the message, and then peered at the number he had delivered it to. "Um...isn't that...Mycroft's number?"
Sherlock let out a snort before chuckling, and John couldn't help but smile in return. He waited a moment, wondering what response they would get before the phone in his hand vibrated.
John choked out a laugh as he turned to read the text to Sherlock.
"Thank you for your message to the National Bank of Holmes. Unfortunately we are experiencing technical difficulties and do not have the time to pander to whimsical siblings. We recommend checking with your real bank."
"See how quick he replied?" Sherlock giggled, his deep, mellifluous laugh that sounded like a mastodon purring. "...Means he's...lonely. And fat."
"Oh, don't be so mean about poor Mycroft," John said with a small pout, even though he was fighting back giggles. "He's just wishing he could have some of this... Slightly bitter...warm stuff."
The doctor picked up the odd-shaped bottle that contained more of the cooling drink, eyeing the colourful and elaborate Japanese text, before refilling their thimbles.
"He has hundred-year old wine that he won't drink 'cos...it's a hundred years old. What a waste," Sherlock pondered, forgoing his small cup and instead taking a few swigs from the kanji-covered bottle.
"Oh don't be gross," John whined as he reached forward to take the bottle away from Sherlock. "Don't want your spit in there," he grumbled. "God knows where it's been."
"In my salivary glands. And my mouth. Where it should be," Sherlock shrugged, with the accompaniment of John's scoff of laughter, before getting up, shucking his heavy dressing-gown in the tipsy heat of the room and leaving it in a puddle of silk on the floor.
He rushed to the kitchen, returning with two large tumblers. "S'better," he announced, nodding approvingly as he sat back down on the sofa with a thump.
"Drink now, John. Before it gets cold," he snickered, taking a breather in which to scoot down onto the floor, back against the sofa with his long legs out straight, head-banging gently to the music.
John couldn't stop himself from watching Sherlock as he unwound his long limbs.
"So why didn't you tell me, before, about... Person?"
Sherlock stopped bopping and let out a long, rumbling exhale, which made it feel and sound like there was an engine somewhere in the room. John couldn't tell if it was contented, or thoughtful, or peeved.
"…I'm loud," came the eventual reply, accompanied by a soppy smile.
John let out a playful, suffering sigh. Thankfully he could blame the drink for the colour on his cheeks.
"Yes you bloody are, Christ." He shifted but laughed, even if it was a little nervous. Then something occurred to John. "Sherlock... said that she'd...already told you off about that. My god, what did she do the first time she heard you?"
Sherlock let out a small giggle before he haphazardly filled his tumbler, spilling a generous amount on the table.
"It involved my violin, two suits and a box of microscope slides. I would recommend you don't press for details, John."
"You...okay, I won't ask. But seriously, you could have killed the woman. You nearly gave me a heart attack." He took a few gulps of the lukewarm sake. It was beginning to grow on him.
John was just smacking his lips when he noticed Sherlock was watching him steadily. His eyes were glazed from the drink, but still sharp.
"What?"
"You didn't run off straight away. Or bang on the door. Or yell 'where's your tie Sherlock!'" His eyes were hazy, but it was clear his scrutiny, though perhaps a little dazed, was all on John.
John swallowed a few times before covering his lips with his glass. It gave him a moment to regain his composure - which was slanted as it was.
"I was surprised. I mean, you said you weren't interested in anyone. Hearing that... threw me off. So I just... left."
"And went where? Your bedroom?" There was no accusation in Sherlock's voice. The detective was now swishing the colourless liquid in his glass, seemingly entranced by it.
A small sound escaped John's throat before he turned it into a cough, shifting a little on the sofa.
"Yes, I went to my room, I got changed and then left. Then I bumped into Mrs Hudson – hey, why am I the one being interrogated here? You're the one with a secret girlfriend, I'm sure it's your turn to spill the beans."
Snorting with amusement, his eyes a bit swimmy, Sherlock dipped a finger into his drink and swirled it distractedly. "Oh John, you do make me laugh. You're as good at deflecting as I am. Or as consistent, at least."
John couldn't stop a smile at that, watching Sherlock's finger as it swirled the liquid. He couldn't help but imagine whether or not Sherlock was talented with them-
"I didn't deflect. I answered. You're the one who's deflecting. Won't you tell me anything about her?"
"Why do you care?" They glanced at each other, daring.
"Why won't you tell me?" he shot back, keeping Sherlock's eye.
"Why do you answer questions with more questions?"
"Why don't you answer any?"
"Fine. I'll tell you stuff. About my...stuff. But I guarantee in under two minutes you'll tell me to shut up and say 'too much information Sherlock,' or you'll get narked and jealous, or embarrassed, or all three."
"I do not get jealous," John almost snapped, only just reeling back before he fell right into Sherlock's trap. "And I don't get embarrassed, when I've got a heads up."
"I'll hold you to it John. Um…Hold you to that. But it's not fair. I'll ask you things too. Really rude things."
"Yeah but... That's just who you are." John bit the inside of his lip before looking into his glass. "I'm kinda used to it, honestly."
"I meant things about your penis."
John choked on the mouthful of sake, leaning forward to hack up the liquid that caught the back of his throat.
"Jesus, Sherlock," he rasped, wiping his chin.
Sherlock carried on, glib as ever. "Admit I don't usually ask you about your penis."
"Not that I can remember." John coughed again before taking a soothing sip of his sake.
"Touché!" Sherlock announced victoriously. "...Hmm...I don't think that's the right word."
His expression crumpled and he crooked a hand in front of his mouth as he pondered the right phrase. A few seconds later, he frowned at John as if he had actually spoken. "Stop trying to distract me from your genitals."
John let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head at Sherlock's bluntness.
"Are you actually going to ask me about my dick, Sherlock? Seriously?"
"Why not, you're going to ask about mine. Or more se- specifically, what I do with it. Where I stick it." He took a delicate mouthful of sake, and turned the music (currently A-ha's Take On Me) up, which had mysteriously gotten quieter, or so it seemed to him.
John bit his tongue between his teeth, trying to comprehend the conversation.
"I'm asking about the person, not where... you... stick it." Had Sherlock turned the heating on again?
"Who I stick it in. You're dying to know. Man, woman, or...um...anything else. Correct?"
John couldn't deny it since he was practically hanging on the edge of his seat.
"Fine, if that's how you want to play. Sherlock Holmes, who are you sticking your dick in?"
"I forgot to say," Sherlock said, louder than necessary over the music that he had turned up. "I'm not going to tell you anyone's name. You have to guess. And if you're right I still won't tell you. Because that's cheating."
John couldn't stop a grin spreading across his features.
"Now who's deflecting?"
Sherlock looked troubled, and nibbled on his plump bottom lip, before abruptly crawling across the floor in his rumpled PJ's to sit at John's feet. "Okay...you say...um...woman. And I say hot or cold. Let's play that."
He had to lick his lips again to stop himself muttering something under his breath at Sherlock kneeling in front of him. That was an image he wouldn't forget soon.
"Woman?"
Sherlock scrubbed a hand across his face, and then rested his bony chin on John's knee ponderously. "Cold."
John swallowed.
"Man?"
The detective rolled his eyes dramatically. "Don't be boring, John. Obviously it must be a man."
John raised an eyebrow, leaning forward to put his glass on the table.
"You said it's someone I might know. So...Anderson?" He couldn't stop a wicked grin.
A protracted growl of irritation, "You're not playing properly. And it's my go anyway. Did you masturbate in your room after hearing me come?"
The rapid-fire question was so quick that it was like a bullet in the room.
Almost as soon as he had asked the question, Sherlock waved a hand. "Sorry, that wasn't fair. It wasn't even a hot or cold question. Um...hmm...we need a topic for you."
John felt like he was having palpitations, the colour drained from his face.
"Okay. Yeah, topic for me." Christ, Sherlock would be able to read the answers on his face clear as day. The man didn't even need to ask them to get an answer.
"I'm going to find out about the first man you were ever attracted to. That's fair."
"Who said I've ever been attracted to a man?" he asked quickly, barely taking a breath before he answered.
"John, John, Johnny," the detective sighed patiently. " If you're going to start faffing and lying straight away, then so will I. And you won't find out anything about my penis adventures." He said this from his chinrest on his doctor's knee, where he was still perched.
John closed his eyes and let his head fall back onto the sofa, letting out a long-suffering sigh.
"Fine. Your turn."
John made the mistake of opening his eyes to see Sherlock resting on his knee, eyes twinkling as they looked up at him. Goddamn it.
The detective began without preamble. "It was when you were at University?"
"Uh... Warm?" John adjusted his hips in the sofa, careful not to jar Sherlock's chin. "It's definitely someone I know, who you're with?"
"Hot," Sherlock nodded, grabbing the sake bottle again and draining it, looking mortified at the belated realisation that there was now none left. "Sake crisis," he murmured.
He scrambled off to the kitchen, with a bang and a muffled sound that suggested he had run straight into the sturdy table and was too drunk to really feel the pain of it.
He soon returned with a very expensive-looking full bottle of whiskey, looking exceedingly pleased with himself. This time, when he plopped back down to the floor, he didn't return to his previous position, and John was surprised to feel a bit bereft.
"Y'have a thing for authority. Tutor? Hmm, but I was only warm. Not at University, but around the same time?"
John chuckled as he reached forward for the bottle, examining it and pulling off the lid.
"Hot," he said as he took a whiff. "So it's someone I definitely know... Did you not tell me because you thought I'd react badly?"
"Not 'thought.' I knew. And you did react badly. Even Hudders didn't react that badly...Then again, she thought it was you," Sherlock pondered aloud.
"Stop calling her 'Hudders,' it's unnerving. And I didn't react badly, I was just shocked. If you told me outright I would have understood." It took him a moment to process what Sherlock had said completely, and he couldn't help a small chuckle. "Yeah, don't think she believed me until you confirmed it wasn't me. And then she looked well put out."
"She thinks we belong together. It's rather sweet," Sherlock mused, before taking an obscene gulp of whiskey and sighing contentedly. "I'm guessing this man you were attracted to...you never progressed to anywhere near penetrative sex with him. Though you considered it. Wanted it. You probably made a move and he rejected you."
John felt he shoulders tense and he let his breath out in a hiss, reaching for the bottle and pouring a generous amount of whiskey into his tumbler.
"Nice, Sherlock. Subtle."
"...Was that a 'hot,' then? That's a shame. You'd make a good partner. He was clearly an idiot."
Despite the roundabout way Sherlock had picked apart his history, John felt quite comforted by his words.
"He was an idiot…I'm not angry or anything, you know. I am happy for you. Can I meet him?"
"...He's not my boyfriend. We've never even kissed."
"But... You've had sex?"
"Yes, but he...I haven't experienced anything romantic with him."
"Oh..." John didn't quite know how to answer. If Sherlock had been with this mysterious man for so long, there would have to be some kind of emotions involved, wouldn't there? It was human nature to develop some kind of emotional attachment.
"Just sex then."
"Unfortunately."
John didn't know what to make of that response, either. "…Oh, well... Can I at least know his name? Would make it less daunting should I, you know, accidentally walk in on something."
"Less daunting? What are you going to do, use his name as some kind of protection spell? Silly John," he said fondly.
"Well it would make it less awkward should you start hollering his name at some point."
"I can barely form complete words at that point in my...in the proceedings. As well you know," Sherlock smirked.
That blush wasn't giving up, was it?
"Yes, I do. Lucky I caught on or I would have stormed in thinking you were being hurt."
"Yes. Lucky." Sherlock finally hoisted himself up onto the sofa beside his doctor, stretching his limbs luxuriantly before snuggling up in his own arms. "Okay John, you're honestly eaten up with curiosity about what was going on in my room, and it's going to haunt you forever. Hot or cold," he chuckled.
John narrowed his eyes, keeping up the semi-glare as he took a long swig of his drink.
"You painted a pretty clear picture, Sherlock. I don't think I need to ask with all the 'oh's and the ' right there's."
"You're really not wondering if I top or bottom?"
"Well I wasn't! Jesus... It's not my business to know whether you give or receive."
"John! I didn't ask if it was your business. I asked if you were curious."
"Well you're putting these questions into my head so of course I'm curious now you've brought it up!"
Sherlock chuckled, a smug look on his face. "I knew it," he teased, nudging John with his elbow affectionately. "And I know you're wondering about my earlier offer."
John scoffed but felt a tugging smile on his cheeks.
"No, I'm not wondering about it. You're obviously better at pulling then I am, and clearly you've got more practice, but I'm good in the habits I've got." Although he wouldn't mind knowing what had made Sherlock nearly scream from pleasure.
"I don't have as much practice as you think. You've used your 'habits' on men, hot or cold?"
John opened his mouth but snapped it closed again. Hell, in for a penny right?
"Hot. And you knew when I got home, hot or cold?"
"I only knew when I saw the windows. And the writing set, and mug. It was obvious you'd been there for a lot longer than the instant it would take to hear me and then leave. Oh!" The detective suddenly froze, his eyes unfocussed. He looked like someone had just told him he was sitting on a landmine. "Um, John, I don't wish to alarm you, but I'm getting an erection."
John frowned and obviously he looked down. The pyjama bottoms didn't do anything to hide the small rise, and he suddenly felt himself go rigid.
"Windows give you erections?"
He was graced with a loud tut. "Talking about orgasms gives me erections. We've been discussing sex for a while, John. And I...I'm quite easily stimulated. I'll move away." He got up and trudged to his armchair, biting the inside of his mouth before taking out his phone and beginning to type.
God, Sherlock was acting as if John had just slapped him around the face with a dead fish because he'd mentioned erections. Or, because of sex. He wasn't sure, everything was getting a bit jumbled. He watched Sherlock text for a moment before the question slipped out of his mouth.
"Are you texting him?"
There was a telling pause. Sherlock did finally flush, and quite deeply. "It's not that late. He lives near, I could go round. The thing is...I sometimes have difficulty reaching climax on my own. I have certain...preferences, and it helps vastly to have a willing partner. The other thing is that once I get an erection, it can be quite...stubborn."
John felt that creeping heat winding up his neck again but this time there was another tendril sneaking downwards. Maybe Sherlock was right - talking about sex for too long would only lead to a certain amount of arousal. He cleared his throat and squirmed in his chair.
"Oh," he said, maybe a little breathless. "I can... I can go out, if you want?"
"Um..." Sherlock seemed undecided, when his phone beeped loudly. John felt as tense as the detective looked.
"Let me know now, though, because..." I don't really want to be here when your sexy buddy arrives to give you a mind blowing orgasm and me leaving with the knowledge that all I have is my hand?
"He can't tonight, he's with someone else. Bugger," Sherlock shrugged, and sat back down in his armchair as if nothing untoward had occurred, though he did look fairly melancholy.
"Someone else?" Jesus, the man must have been good to have so many different lovers. He was half-glad when Sherlock mentioned that he practiced safe sex - then again, who was the fool to turn down someone like Sherlock? Surely anyone would jump at the chance to bed the man, wouldn't they?
"Well," he said a little awkwardly. "It's not the end of the world."
"No, I suppose not," Sherlock acceded. "He's not my boyfriend after all. It's a pity though...because I really am quite fond of him." There was a beat of silence. "I'd better go to bed, John. I had a pleasant evening, thank you for your company." He went to the kitchen, and downed a big glass of water. He seemed to have sobered quite literally with the rejection from his mystery man. The detective offered one last half-hearted wave before sloping off to his bedroom and closing his door.
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