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There was something surreal about this moment. If John wasn’t so drunk, he might be able to remember why that was. But, for now, all he cared about was the weight of the body above him, the feel of it, the scent the enveloped him. Because, God, if this wasn’t one of the best moments of his life, then he’d miscalculated in there somewhere.
He wasn’t exactly sure how he’d ended up in this situation. John remembered coming home, after dragging Sherlock out of the last pub, and sitting—or were they laying?—on the stairs for a bit. They’d eventually made their way up to the flat, making odd conversation before agreeing to play a game. Still drinking, because why the hell not, and sticking names on each other’s foreheads, they sat down in their chairs and began asking questions.
John would deny it if anyone asked, but he secretly loved seeing Sherlock inebriated. He was less abrasive when he was drunk, well, at least to John, and quicker with a smile that didn’t involve a dead body as the cause behind it. It also didn’t hurt that his deduction skills were exceptionally lower when he was drunk, making him on a more level playing field. John didn’t have to worry about Sherlock deducing every little thing about him when he’d had a few and could afford to let his guard down a bit. Not that he was keeping anything from Sherlock, except for that one thing he hardly let himself even think about. But it was easier knowing Sherlock wasn’t deducing his every move.
And a drunk Sherlock was much more fun when John was pissed himself.
It had been John’s turn to ask the questions, Sherlock having fallen back in his seat, taking another sip of his drink. John had leaned forward but put too much momentum behind it, sliding most of the way off his chair. He placed his hand on Sherlock’s knee to balance himself but it didn’t help much. Sherlock clumsily reached down to help but John ended up pulling Sherlock down with him, the two of them sprawling out on the floor. Sherlock had landed on top, his long body completely covering John, overwhelming his senses. It took only a few seconds for the laughter to subside and for Sherlock’s mouth to attach itself to John’s.
Nothing in that moment mattered, it was just them, teasing and tasting each other. One of them moaned, John wasn’t entirely sure which as he reached around, pulling Sherlock tight against him, enjoying the friction. Sherlock’s lips released John’s, moving down his neck and peppering it with kisses. There was a moment when John came to his senses long enough to ask his best friend what the hell were they doing and Sherlock lifted his head, his eyes roaming over John’s face before settling on his mouth again.
“I don’t know.” And his mouth crashed against John’s again.
John had always cared about Sherlock. When it had become something more than that, he wasn’t exactly sure, but the revelation had filled him with dread. Sherlock would never return his feelings, he didn’t feel things that way, John was sure. He saw love as a weakness, a defect. Sure, Sherlock cared about John, in what ever way he was capable, but it would never equal the amount of love John felt for him. And that was when John made the decision to move on from Sherlock Holmes.
And what a bloody good job he was doing at that. One of Sherlock’s hands found it’s way under John’s jumper and he moaned, arching his back. Sherlock moaned then, and his nails scratched against John’s skin. God, he never wanted this to end.
Thank God they’d had the foresight for once to shut the damn door, because before things could go any further, there was a loud knocking sound. It seemed to echo through the room, jolting them out of the spell they’d been thrown under. Half a second later the person knocked again, and they scrambled off the floor, flying into their respective chairs. Sherlock attempted to straighten his clothes while John tried desperately to get his breathing under control, the thought of getting caught sobering them up a bit. When they were at least somewhat presentable, Sherlock called for whoever it was to come in.
A client. Yes, John thought, business as usual. Just what he needed. Though, it probably would’ve been better if they weren’t so intoxicated. Oh well.
Sherlock was glad for the Mayfly Man case. It gave him something to focus on, instead of continuously replaying what happened between him and John in that very same room the night before. Not that he would’ve been doing that, of course, but if his brain was ever inclined to do such a thing, well it now had more important things to worry about.
They hadn’t mentioned it. Everything had been back to normal after waking up in the jail cell that morning. In fact, Sherlock would’ve thought John didn’t remember, except when he came up to see Sherlock earlier he’d kept his distance and avoided that half of the room. He was also refusing to make eye contact with Sherlock for more than a few seconds.
When the urge to pull John into his lap and pick up where they’d left off slammed into him, Sherlock was glad John was keeping out of his personal space.
What the hell had he been thinking? Making out with his best friend days before that same best friend married someone else. The alcohol was obviously at fault here, Sherlock would have never let his resolve slip if he hadn’t been so far gone. He’d been quiet proud of himself until then, managing to play the part of best man as if a hole wasn’t being ripped through him every time he thought of them together.
He never regretted his two years away more than he had the past few weeks. And not just because if he’d stayed, he could have continued to successfully chase away any of John’s potential girlfriends. If he hadn’t been forced to stay away from John for so long, he might not have placed a name to the abnormally strong feelings that his friend stirred up in him. He could’ve kept on believing that he intentionally kept John away from his dates because relationships like that were a distraction, not to mention a liability. He was actually protecting John, he’d told himself.
It was six months into his isolation, six long months after leaving John that it hit Sherlock that he might actually love John. He hadn’t expected being away from John to be that hard. He’d been on his own before, he could do it again. Yes, he…cared about John, probably more than he had been willing to admit, but he was convinced that he could move past it. But the pain of being away, the longing he felt to go home to John, forced him to reconsider the facts.
Fact number one: He was in love with John Watson.
Fact number two: John Watson was almost certainly not in love with Sherlock Holmes.
If had any doubt about fact number two, seeing John with Mary after he came back had rid him of it. Sherlock supposed he should’ve expected it, that John would move on with his life. But he’d been selfish and had taken John’s admiration for granted. Coming back made him see that.
Just because John didn’t love him didn’t mean John didn’t deserve to be happy, and Sherlock wasn’t going to stand in the way of that, not after what he put John through.
It helped that he liked Mary, he truly did. She was good for John, and Sherlock could see that she loved him. It didn’t escape Sherlock, though, that Mary was for John what Sherlock had been after John returned from the war. Sherlock had dragged John out of his post war depression, and Mary did the same after Sherlock “died.” Sherlock supposed he owed her a thank you for taking care of his doctor when he couldn’t.
It also didn’t escape him that out of the two people who brought John back, he fell for the one that wasn’t Sherlock. He tried not to dwell on that too much.
He really should’ve known better than to get drunk around John, but he wanted his friend to have a good stag night. Sherlock had really never expected to be John’s best man, and he wanted to get it right. Images of the night before pushed their way into Sherlock’s mind again and he shoved them back.
Sherlock was never drinking again.
“Why would he change his identity?” He began shutting all of the laptops he’d confiscated.
“Maybe he’s married?” John offered. Sherlock thought for a moment, running over the data again in his head, before agreeing.
The flat fell into an uncomfortable silence. Sherlock busied himself with the laptops and watching John shift awkwardly from foot to foot out of the corner of his eye. He once again cursed his inability to keep himself together. Things between them were finally beginning to get back to normal, and then Sherlock had gone and kissed him. John probably hated him now.
“Sod it,” John muttered, drawing Sherlock’s full attention. John looked up, meeting Sherlock's eyes full on for the first time since they’d woken up that morning. “I thought I could do this, pretend I didn’t remember, go home to Mary like everything was normal and shit.” Sherlock’s eyebrow rose at the profanity. “But, I can’t. What the bloody hell were we doing last night, Sherlock?”
Sherlock frowned. “Are you asking for a recap of the whole evening, or are you referring to a specific event because—”
“You know what I’m bloody talking about, so cut the smartarse crap.” John folded his arms across his chest and stared at Sherlock.
The problem was, Sherlock couldn’t give him an answer, not with exposing more of himself than he was comfortable with. He’d already caused a rift between them, he wasn’t about to ruin any chance of fixing it by putting John in the awkward position of having to refuse his best friend.
Besides, Sherlock Holmes didn’t do feelings. At least, not when he could help it.
“I don’t know,” he said, repeating his words from the night before.
It was John’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “You don’t know? Really?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What do you expect me to say? We were intoxicated. Don’t people do all kinds of stupid things when they’re inebriated?”
“Yes, but you’re not everyone, you’re Sherlock Holmes. You don’t do anything without over analyzing it first.”
“Don’t put people on pedestals, John,” Sherlock admonished. “They might fall.” He winced at his choice of words. “Sorry. The point is, even I do things without fully considering the consequences, especially when I’m drunk.”
“So, you kissed me because…what? You felt like it?” John laughed incredulously.
Defensive, Sherlock shot back, “If I remember correctly, you weren’t complaining.”
John got quiet again, his gaze now fixed on the floor.
That was another thing about the night before Sherlock refused to think about. John had been so responsive, not even hesitating before throwing himself into their kisses. Sherlock chalked it up to the alcohol affecting John’s behavior, but it turned him on more than he’d ever been in his life, and he’d struggled to keep control.
His brother, Moriarty, and who knew who else may believe him to be a virgin, but they were wrong. As John liked to say, he was Sherlock Holmes, who experimented and tested theories. To think this was an area he’d never bothered with was a poor assumption. Sherlock was nothing if not thorough, and would need all the evidence before making a final deduction.
Sex was overrated, he’d always thought. Sure it was…pleasurable (at least some had been, others wouldn’t fall anywhere near that category), but Sherlock failed to experience whatever it was convinced people it was a necessary part of life. He’d dismissed it, deeming it unimportant. Participating in such activities on a regular basis was no help to his work. Not to mention sex usually required at least one other person, and Sherlock was happier alone.
But that was before John. If there was anyone Sherlock would consider changing his life for, it would be him.
Not that that was an option now, John was about to marry somebody else. Goddamn it.
Sherlock looked over at John again and was surprised to see John staring back at him, his face showing little emotion. It was the same controlled expression John always pulled when his feelings threatened to overwhelm him. Sherlock’s brows furrowed as he waited for John to speak.
“You’re right."
“I usually am, John, but about what in particular—”
“I liked it, the kissing.”
Sherlock froze. What the hell was he supposed to say to that?
John had to remind himself to breath. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from Sherlock, but at the same time dreaded what he might see there. What if he’d been wrong? He wasn’t Sherlock, his deduction skills were minimal at best. But something about the whole thing between them had been bothering him since they’d woken up that morning, and he would never forgive himself if he didn’t see through.
The entire reasoning for not ever attempting to pursue Sherlock further was based on John’s belief that Sherlock would never return his feelings. He was Sherlock bloody Holmes for Christ’s sake, even if he was inclined to such emotions, it would never be for anyone like him. The Sherlock Holmes of this world didn’t fall the John Watsons.
He loved Mary, he did. John was telling the truth when he’d told her she was the best thing that could’ve happened to him. She brought light back into his dull gray world and allowed him to feel again. He would’ve been lost without her.
But she wasn’t Sherlock. In the beginning that wasn’t a problem, because Sherlock was gone. Settling was easier when it was the only option. Then Sherlock came back. John told himself that his relationship with Mary wouldn’t be affected, just because Sherlock was back didn’t mean he was anymore available than he’d been before he’d gone and faked his death. And honestly, John was too bloody pissed at him to consider moving on with their relationship in anyway.
Sherlock’s kiss had knocked all of that off course.
That kiss, if Sherlock meant it, was a complete game changer. Sherlock didn’t make out with people. Ever. It didn’t happen. Up until that night, John had even been convinced Sherlock was still a virgin. So, if he was kissing John then that meant one of two things. Either he’d come up with some experiment that involved kissing your best friend while drunk, which John didn’t think was likely. Or, Sherlock kissed John because his drunk self was unable to prevent him from doing it.
And if it was the second one, that changed everything.
Suddenly fear gripped, latching tightly onto his heart. What if that didn’t change anything? There was no way to tell if Sherlock would ever let himself act on those instincts sober, if there were any there to begin with. None of this changed the kind of man Sherlock was, the one who saw any sort of feelings as a weakness. Even if he admitted to sharing John’s feelings, that didn’t mean he was prepared to act on them.
“You…?” Sherlock trailed off, still looking confused.
“Yes.”
Sherlock took a step closer to him. “You’re getting married.”
As if John needed the reminder. But Mary was a good person, if this went the way he was hoping it would, John knew she’d understand. To Sherlock, he said, “I don’t have to be.”
The pure naked emotion that flashed across Sherlock’s face was all the confidence John needed. He moved closer to Sherlock. “But I need a sure thing, Sherlock.” He took a deep breath. “I love you, but I love Mary, too. And if I’m going to break off my engagement, I need something more tangible than a drunken make out session. I’m not asking for you to declare your undying love for me, or anything, but something to indicate that last night wasn’t some one off thing—”
“I love you.”
That shut John up. Sherlock kept speaking.
“I once told Irene that love was a defect found on the losing side. Nothing good ever came from sentiment, John, of this I was absolutely convinced. Caring for other people, especially with what we do, only put them at risk, made them a target. A point Moriarty proved when he took you. So, it came as a shock while I was gone, that the thing I missed most wasn’t the flat. It wasn’t the thrill of ‘being Sherlock Holmes’ as you called it. What I missed the most, what I dreamed of almost every night, was coming home. And home was you. That realization had made everything clear. My only regret was that I discovered my feelings too late to do anything about them.” Sherlock swallowed hard, uncertainty displayed on his face, with just a tiny bit of hope mixed in. John still hadn’t been able to move, his brain processing what was happening.
“I don’t know if I can give you everything you need, John. But…” Sherlock cleared his throat. “But I would like to try.”
Everything seemed to catch up all at once, and the realization of what Sherlock was asking slammed into him like a ton of bricks, knocking him back into action. In an instant he’d closed the gap between them, wrapped his hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, their lips meeting a second later.
It was just as intense as their first, lips and tongues and hands all moving, exploring. John bite down slightly on Sherlock’s bottom lip and Sherlock groaned, spinning John around and pressing him into the wall by the door. Shirts were untucked and unbuttoned, jumpers yanked off. Everything was rushed and frantic and fan-bloody-tastic. John wasn’t sure anything could beat this moment.
His brain struggled to focus, but managed to bring him back to his senses. John broke off the kisses, pulling back, his hands on Sherlock’s face to keep him from following. Hurt and confusion flickered through Sherlock’s eyes as he waited for John to explain.
“Mary. I can’t…not until I’ve ended the engagement. It’s not fair to her.”
Sherlock nodded, but was unable to keep the pout he normally wore when he didn’t get his way from showing on his face. John couldn’t resist, kissing Sherlock again, and then moving out from under his body. His jumper had landed on one of the horns of whatever that bloody thing was that hung on the wall over the desk. John shot Sherlock a look.
Sherlock’s attempt to appear innocent was ruined by a smug smile that couldn’t be tamed. John couldn’t help but smile back.
Being with Sherlock was going to be a handful, but then, that was one of the things John loved about him.