deduce | hard to admit I fought the war on drugs.

hard to admit I fought the war on drugs.

[ He hates being predictable, and yet, this is perhaps the one thing he'll indulge in willingly time and time again - it's an addiction, and it's one he can never truly turn his back on. When the world ticks by so slowly and the cases just aren't enough, that's when things tend to err on the side of genuine insanity, and he's not entirely sure anyone could ever actually understand that moment of panic, of quiet paranoia that kicks up every latent fear he has imbedded within his head. For a man with a mind that's constantly buzzing, feeling it all slowly ebb away, thoughts grinding to a halt without so much as a warning is honestly as distressing as things can get - he's his own worst enemy, and there's only one thing he can do to fix it. His mind is everything, and when it's not cooperating, when he can feel it stagnating and decaying (like every thought is corrupted binary, quietly disappearing into nothingness with barely a trace), he thinks he has every right to turn towards the drugs.

It's all a habit by now, the way the needle sinks into skin and oh, oh, the moment he feels it all slide into his veins is absolutely heaven. It's been far too long, a year, perhaps more - and oh, how he's always craved it, every single day, every single minute and every single second; there's nothing quite like an addict finally getting his fix. It's a moment or two before he even moves again, simply allowing his arm to twitch and shift by itself - god, he can't stop smiling, and even when there's sounds of life, of someone slamming the door shut and casually making their way up the stairs, he barely has the forethought to hide everything. He does it, just, but he has to slump back onto his couch before doing anything else. God, it's glorious, everything is bright and beautiful and his mind is kicking into gear, thoughts steadily building until he feels some semblance of normality returning. Of course, it's a distorted sort of normalcy, but he'll take it. There's nothing wrong with a little healthy distortion now and then.

He must look strange, thought. Flopped back onto the couch, eyes glazed over as he stares at the ceiling and waits for John to appear at the door, because who else could it possibly be at this hour? Mrs Hudson has long since gone to bed, and oh how he's craving a cigarette - one downside of the cocaine is the vices that come with it, not to mention the side effects.

At least it promises to be an interesting night. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ well, that evening had gone not so swiftly to hell. just one night. Harry had called up a week or so ago asking to meet up, and after far too many minutes spent listening to guilt trip after sarcastic dig after close to genuine plea, John had decided one night couldn't hurt. they'd been getting on well enough the past few months - Harry had been sober almost as long. and besides, how bad could dinner be?

so he'd left the flat at around 8 and gone out to meet his sister. at 8:30, he'd collected her from the hotel and they'd made their way to their dinner reservation. at around 10, they'd been paying the bill when Harry had suggested they pop to the pub. he'd given her a look that told her exactly how funny he found that suggestion, but she'd ensured him she was still dry as a bone and that a pub was as good a place as any for the continuation of a catch-up chat— so they'd gone, and when John returned from the men's room some time later to find Harry at the bar with a man he didn't know, sipping at a drink (G&T, by the look of it) he'd clearly just bought for her and getting just a little too close, John had turned around and walked away.

he's tired when he gets back, relieved to be back and looking forward to sitting down in his armchair with a cup of tea, maybe even setting to making his best effort yet at nailing Sherlock's memory deletion thing. he's fairly sure he's had a night he won't mind accidentally forgetting, if by some miracle he cracks it this time. with a last flourish of temper the door slams shut behind him and he immediately cringes (Mrs Hudson's bound to be in bed by now), pauses to take a steadying breath, and by the time he reaches the top of the stairs he wanders into the living room calmer if a little more weary. ]

Evening.

[ he doesn't spare Sherlock so much as a glance as he sheds his jacket and drops it over the arm of his chair, making his way into the kitchen. the kettle's filled, set to boil and mug readied with teabag and milk before John emerges again.

and stills. eyes Sherlock for a moment. frowns. ]

Alright?

_{[ Sherlock is perhaps the best he's been in months. A sad statement, and yet one he's absolutely certain is true; he hasn't bothered moving to greet John, he just stays still with his head lolling back on the cushion. There's no doubt he looks - somehow off, but he's just not in the mood to pretend to be anything other than euphoric, not when it's precisely how he feels. It's difficult to ground himself when he feels like flying, difficult to think about anything other than the drug - which is precisely what he needed. It's exactly what the doctor ordered (so to speak, because John certainly wouldn't have ordered it, but Sherlock knows his own body, and he knows what he needs when he needs it).

But really, he should at least attempt to seem somewhat normal - but he doesn't want to overdo it at the same time. He knows he can appear utterly high or somewhere in between sober and high, and he's reasonably certain that he's busy looking completely out of his head, which isn't a look he usually goes for. So he tries to straighten up, tries to school his expression away from a lazy smile and instead stares down towards john.

Oh, and he stops moving his fingers, too. Probably looks quite odd, really. ]}

I did tell you that she hadn't stopped drinking.

_{[ Yes, he did just get that from one look. He's been saying it for months, and yet John continued to blindly believe in optimism when the obvious was - well, obvious. ]}

Mm, I'm good.

_{[ Perfect, actually. Haven't been this wired since their last meeting with James, and oh, wasn't that fun? ]}

Thanks. That's exactly what I wanted to talk about.

[ it's dry, deadpan. because it isn't, it really isn't what he wanted to talk about and he's more than certain they're both completely aware of at least that much. if now were any other time he might be a little more irritated by the comment - but it's also not first and forefront on his mind right now. something about Sherlock isn't there tonight, slightly off-center, not quite in the sort of alignment he'd come to expect in the past while. John's caught in an odd little mental knot all of a sudden, torn between trying not to think about it for that niggling voice in the back of his head that says it knows exactly what he's seeing and knowing he has to, knowing that no matter how long he avoid the potentially obvious it's going to come back to haunt him eventually.

much like Harry's drinking. "I did tell you that she hadn't stopped drinking" - and look how that played out. ]

Yeah. You look it, actually.

[ it's not a compliment, or even a particularly glad-sounding comment. it's a statement of cautious unspoken question (question to himself, prompting to himself, I know you're tired John but you've got to stay alert there's something wrong we both know it) and he picks a route across the room, sliding in behind the coffee table to perch himself on the sofa by Sherlock's feet.

his hands come together in front of him and his elbows rest on his thighs as he peers at his flatmate with as casual a stare as he can muster, speaks as nonchalantly as he can manage considering the completely atypical circumstances he's found himself in ever since leaving Baker Street earlier that evening. it's a sudden shift in demeanor from the dubious caution of moments before, and he knows the change from disgruntled friend to tentative carer is perhaps a little too pronounced - but hey, what can you do? he doesn't have the energy to make the transition flow any smoother. ]

Have a nice night? While I was out. Get up to much?

_{[ The only thing Sherlock does at John's initial reply is smile somewhat wider before looking up towards the ceiling, casually allowing his expression to drop lazily with the effort of following the lines etched above him. It takes him a moment or two before he concentrates on John again, but he's been watching - sort of, he's so alert, he can hear the uncomfortable shift John makes as he slips from weary into concerned - it's in the gait, the subtle way he breathes out and suddenly concentrates all of his attention on Sherlock. He knows he's acting suspicious, and he imagines that the paranoia might not be far behind - but for now, he's fine, he's happy, which he hasn't been for far too long. He even sighs, a gentle little thing as he tilts his head, watching as John moves to take a seat at Sherlock's feet. Well, fine, if that's where he wants to sit, then he can accept his fate as Sherlock's foot stool - he even prods against his elbows very pointedly in order for him to move.

Sherlock wants to stretch out, and this is the fate John has resigned himself to.

He senses danger, though. The quiet sort of danger in which John is quietly working things out for himself (far too clever, certainly smarter than Sherlock gives him credit - he's learning Sherlock's own techniques, a fact that usually pushes Sherlock towards feeling pride, but for now, it's daunting. No one needs to know about this slip - John least of all. He's trying to ensure that John doesn't see just how tiny his pupils are, because in a dark room lik this, that'll give the game away far quicker than anything else ever would (and then there's his pulse, beating irregularly and quickly, far too quickly for man that's been lounging around the flat for the last few days - god, just let him have this, alright? Just- stop thinking, let it go). ]}

Not especially.

_{[ His voice sound slower. Is it lower? Well, he can't help it, the cocaine is making things difficult to concentrate on. The mere feel of John's thighs underneath his heel is enough to distract him for far too long about things he really shouldn't be considering in present company. ]}

Though I imagine it's been better than your night thus far.

[ John frowns as Sherlock goes so far as to prod him into a more comfortable position - but he doesn't have the energy to put up any real resistance to it for now, so instead slides a little further back in his seat and resigns himself. fine, put your feet on me, see if i care. it'll be your own problem when you have to move again to let me up in minute when the kettle's boiled.

he gives the offending feet a look - really? - before refocusing his attentions on Sherlock.

conversation, normal and routine conversation, is such a welcome relief from the journey home's thoughts of his sister that he lets the inquisition fall slightly. later. if it's important, he'll deal with it after his tea. ]

Not hard, really.

[ there's no point in covering up the fact his night had turned into an absolute shambles. Sherlock had already hit the nail on the head, after all - why play backpedal? ]

Remind me to listen to the world's only consulting detective next time he tries to tell me something, would you?

I remind you every day, but you still find excuses not to listen. I doubt anything will change by increasing insistence.

_{[ Sherlock is simultaneously noticing everything and doing nothing about it - a small moment in which observation is just enough to keep him preoccupied, where his thoughts are making sense (and at the same time, they're making none whatsoever, it's so enthralling). He doesn't care that he's acting oddly even though he really should, even though he was worried seconds before, because cocaine does so many beautiful things to his brain - the world is better, John is comfortable and with every shift his foot makes, it's like the sensation alone is illuminating lights all around him, like the world is a makeshift game of dot-to-dot, each one brighter and more interesting than the last.

He knows what it is to be addicted to cocaine, knows everything behind it, knows that the only way he can truly be happy is by abusing a drug he swore he'd give up - it's too late, the pleasure centre in his brain has been permanently damaged, he's forever reckless and self sacrificing for the game, for the thrill life simply doesn't offer any more. It's gorgeous, all of it; the way there's a warmth that's settled in his stomach and slowly spreads through the rest of his body, the way the pads of his fingers feel as they drift across the couch, as his fingernails catch on his dressing gown - god, it's addictive, just as addictive as the drug itself. The only way his mood could ever improve would be if Lestrade picked up the phone and informed him of a fantastically brutal murder, something shocking and oh so interesting - with blood splattered everywhere and far too many missing limbs, hidden for his own enjoyment.

It's times like these that he wishes Jim would give him a call. But he shouldn't think about that.

He hums quietly and moves to sit up, only to lose his grip and for his head to drop back down onto the armrest. Well, that didn't go as planned, but he doesn't seem to mind. For a man practically dripping with grace, that was a reasonably odd move. ]}

You stink of beer.

[ but there's no use, is there? even as the kettle starts bubbling frantically in the kitchen, not far from switching itself off, John's forced to focus on the way nothing feels right. just shy of comfortable, the atmosphere infected by his own uncertainty and Sherlock's questionable behavior.

too much to ask, then, to come back to an armchair and an hour or so of crap telly.

he has to, doesn't he? he doesn't have the option or the excuse not to. hopes high, metaphorical fingers crossed for finding nothing of importance and going for that cup of tea after all (this is territory they don't need to venture into, not now of all times and here of all places, his world apart), John shifts as naturally as he can until a hand's resting on Sherlock's foot. his fingers slide over skin in search of the pulse point and he doesn't even bother trying to hide his intent - let Sherlock loathe him for it if he has to. better that than the alternative. ]

Excuse me for sitting in a pub half the night.

[ searching, searching...

oh.

oh god. what's - god.

right. ]

Sherlock.

[ it's strained, a question and a demand (maybe even something of a plea for all he covers it no let's not go wandering down this road nope no), low and clipped. christ. ]

_{[ It takes him a moment; the touch is initially well received, though he pointedly holds his mouth closed and refuses to make any sound other than a slow exhalation of breath. Pressing a warm hand onto the foot of someone drug addled by amphetamines could be considered as being either incredibly cruel or absolutely necessary, and he's not sure, exactly, which one to decide on, so he doesn't decide at all. He just closes his eyes and suddenly he's still, and it's like he can see the colour of warmth, the way it ghosts along his foot and up along his calf until it's everywhere, until the mere sensation of fingers against skin is honestly overwhelming enough that it forces him to pull away.

And by that point, it's too late.

He didn't even consider it, and he should have - it should have been right there, flickering up from behind his eyelids; it should have been bright red in warning and yet it was nothing, it was just silence coupled with an oddly moreish impression that's becoming increasingly difficult to ignore (and what's worse is that he's not sure he wants to ignore it). He's not an idiot, he knows what cocaine does, knows how it stimulates everything without putting any filtering into effect, knows it's - well, it could get awkward if he lets it, so he's made a decision not to let it. He just pulls his legs back and curls up onto his side, the movement quick and swift in defiance of his poor attempt at moving previously - already, he's frowning, because he knows what that voice is. He knows what this means. It's disapproval and it's exactly what he wanted to avoid (everyone is capable of human error, and Sherlock's margin for error is so much wider than John's - he is his own worst critic, when he misses things, it's like he misses the world, like gaps are longer and larger than they really are - he's hyperaware of every fault he's got, and he doesn't need that voice to pull him deeper into guilt-ridden depths). He's so tired of fighting. It's just a slip, one tiny, insignificant moment of weakness - isn't he allowed the benefit of the doubt?

Apparently not.

With his eyes closed and a forced calm that's practically palpable, Sherlock takes in a deep breath and tucks his knees in tightly against his chest. ]}

It's under control.

[ he doesn't know what to do. a pulse is racing and jumping, leaping around under his fingers and god, jesus he knows what it means, he knows what it means and then Sherlock is gone. curled in on himself like he's weaving some sort of cocoon, like he can disappear inside for a while and when he comes out it'll be like nothing ever happened.

he should have seen this coming.

god, John Watson, you should have seen this coming. what've you both had on recently? not a lot. not enough. not near enough, really. maybe if you'd just looked, maybe if you paid attention instead of making the best of the stillness and overlooking the bloody obvious - Sherlock stagnates. you know that by now. christ, you of all people know it far too well. ]

Sherlock.

[ John rises from his seat, caught somewhere between anger (not quite directed where it probably should be), frustration, upset.

this could have been avoided. this could honestly have been avoided. what right does he have to place blame? ]

God, why didn't you - why didn't you just talk to me? We could have found something. I don't know... a crime play or something. Gone for a weekend away somewhere, found something to do.

[ he's hovering, not quite sure what to do with himself, just sort of standing there down by his ankles and trying his best not to let any fault slip into his voice because there isn't a fault, it's not Sherlock's fault and nor is it his, really. it was inevitable. except John closed his eyes to it, didn't even think about it, and what a bloody good friend that made him. ]

Edited 2012-11-05 08:17 (UTC)

_{[ It's a coping technique. Everything he's doing now, he's done it before to shut people out, to ignore every single insult thrown his way, be it from his brother, from his mother or even from John. He had to do something, had to take matters into his own hands before it was too late to do anything at all, before his mind simply stopped responding to any and all outside stimulus (because there's nothing worst than being lost within his own head, mind palace reeling and turning into something dark and dangerous, everything misplaced and surreal as he'd try to break his mind from the inside out, just to do something, anything. He's been there before, and he never wants to go back, not when he knows he won't be able to take the way his mind jars and ceases up for days, weeks, months afterwards. Everything has its proper place, but when Sherlock has nothing but his thoughts for days on end, his internal organisational methods go to hell and he's like a whirlwind trying to create chaos out of nothing).

He doesn't know how to ask for help. He's never done it, and he can't understand why John's upset rather than angry - they're always angry, always shouting and always belittling (and oh, he knows John's not alright, he's not an idiot, but there's no outward aggression traceable in the way his voice shakes - he knows his expression is etched in chagrin thanks to the situation Sherlock forced him to walk into (doesn't need to see his expression, he feels it in the air, feels John staring down at him and god he wants him to stop, just stop), distress(?) no, disappointment, and doesn't that just make everything worse? The drug won't allow him to stay still; he twitches and he shifts, though he doesn't really move, not from the position he's curled himself up into, and he doesn't move his head beyond the way his eyes are currently scanning the carpet for something, for anything to distract him from the inevitable;e conversation he's simply not ready to hear.

Not from John. ]}

It wouldn't have helped. _{[ His voice is distant by this point - quiet and reflective, thoughtful in a way that might be difficult to trace.

It shouldn't affect John at all - it shouldn't, it's his life and it's his body. Whatever chemicals he chooses to inject or not inject is utterly up to him, and there's the smallest level of defiance kicking in as he pushes his chin out and looks over towards the curtained window. There's nothing to see there, but he hates this, hates the way that everything about John screams uncertainty, hates that he's surprised the army doctor in a way he never really wanted to. Dimly, Sherlock's aware of one thought that keeps repeating itself, despite the fact that it's of no help whatsoever.

John wasn't meant to see me like this. ]}

I... _{[ no, not needed, needed isn't the word. Wanted isn't, either. Sherlock Holmes, the walking and talking thesaurus has no idea how to explain, because it doesn't make sense, John isn't angry, he's genuinely upset but why? He thinks he could have helped it. Could have stopped it happening. Blames himself, god, it's obvious because it's all right there, in the roll of John's shoulders and the way he just can't seem to make up his mind between walking away or staying precisely where he is. ]}

It's fine, John. Go make the tea.

[ it takes him a while. standing there, lost in thoughts and staring at the stubborn way Sherlock just won't look at him, trying to find something in it, trying to find anything he can work with. anything he can use as an indicator for what to do, how to react, how Sherlock's feeling - christ, anything. anything to beat standing here, to beat hovering over a best friend he let down so spectacularly.

god. why didn't he just pay attention.

"It wouldn't have helped".

he doesn't know how much he can believe that. doesn't know how Sherlock can know that for certain - what if they'd traveled down country, gone in search of long cold cases to draw back up and follow through, startled the south west police force into a frenzy? what if they'd found some way of funding a short break across to the continent? there's bound to be things happening over there. there has to have been something he could have done, something other than sitting back and reading the paper while Sherlock tapped into a habit he'd had to have fought so hard in breaking.

fucking Harry. his goddamned sister. if he hadn't wasted the night on her, on she who proclaimed innocence and begged and pleaded and i'm sober John, i've been sober for months, just one night he'd have been able at least to postpone this for a day or two. maybe would have noticed. maybe would have—

it's all at once that he realises three things: Harry Watson isn't anything to do with John Watson's failures, Sherlock had finished speaking to him a good few seconds ago, and the kettle's already boiled.

startling out of his stupor he straightens, falters first forward then back, and twists himself back around to slump back down into the same seat he'd abandoned moments before. his eyes are on the fireplace, not seeing it.]

It's not... fine. It's not, Sherlock.

[ his voice is weak with thick guilt, almost devoid of any trace of emotion other than perhaps the small flash of fear flickering up in his belly. he couldn't help himself, he never helped Harry, and he can't help you.

—god, John Watson. is this all about you, now? no. ]

Christ. Shit. I'm - [ it's probably too late (early?) for sorry, so it dies on his tongue. before long, the carpet's graced with another pair of eyes focused on it, hidden away under a heavily furrowed brow. ]

_{[ There's only so much a genius can do when the world insists on giving him nothing to play with. He's already spent most of his life trying to entertain himself - if there's one thing he genuinely knows, it's what'll work and what won't. The first time he tried cocaine, oh, it was so glorious; things shifted from dull into vibrant in such a short space of time, touching skin was just as addictive as the desired effect it has on his brain and everything along with it - if he could live on this drug, he would. It doesn't matter how dangerous it is, and it doesn't matter that any dose could be his last, whether it's been increased (and it has been, it's always increased by a bit each and every time) or not - that's part of the fun, and he knows John wouldn't want to hear that, so he bites down on his tongue and closes his eyes.

The world might be beautiful, but the way John's standing just behind him feels genuinely cold, like John's left the door open and refuses to close it - but then again, it's really not that type of cold. It's all emotional, and that's a field Sherlock has trouble navigating when sober, let alone when he's high - all he wants to do is enjoy this for everything it's worth. The cocaine isn't cheap, especially the way he likes to have it - liquid has long since gone out of fashion, but Sherlock finds comfort in knowing where it comes from, knowing how much he'd like and where he'd like to stick the needle this time. It's his private little ritual, one that he hasn't let anyone else in on, and just going through the motions with a full vial in one hand and his syringe in the other is always enough to calm him down.

It's strange, though, considering that cocaine is an amphetamine designed to give one more energy than they could ever know what to do with, and yet there Sherlock is, lying down on the couch with his eyes closed. That's testament enough to just how different Sherlock's mind is: there's very few people in the world that would actively seek out cocaine in order to relax, but Sherlock is most assuredly one of those people. Anything to speed his mind up and make it work - it's like jump starting a car, only instead of using cables, he's using chemicals. It's remarkably effective. ]}

It will be. _{[ Fine, that is. He feels better than fine for the moment, even with the guilt that's trying to desperately to drag him down, but he won't let it. He'll fight it every step of the way if he has to, and he'll do it without any hesitation. He doesn't do this very often, not any more - and now that he has, he's not about to let it all go to waste. There's no denying that he has several stashes of his drugs littered around the flat, hidden in increasingly creative and impossible places - the fact that he still has over half of it is a miracle, really.

When Sherlock moves, it's a sudden thing just after the word I'm is said - he knows what's meant to follow, and he doesn't want to hear it. He just levels John with a look as he sits himself up, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he looks away. There's another pause as Sherlock contemplates what he wants to do next, but before long, he allows himself to drop back down and pointedly rests his head in John's lap. ]}

Shut up.

[ Sherlock moves, and John's eyes are there immediately - searching for something, anything to feed off of. but it doesn't last long enough. nothing—

ah?

on the great long list of things he was expecting, he's having trouble picking that one out. staring down at Sherlock's head in a place he's not exactly overly familiar with it being, John has to blink a few times before he fully registers that yes, that's certainly a thing that just happened, and you're probably going to have to decide sooner or later what you're going to do about it Dr. Watson we haven't got all day. he wasn't even aware of the way his leg tensed and arm raised a little off the sofa in immediate response, and he takes deliberate note of both before settling into his decision.

with a sigh, his arm slumps down at his side and his leg relaxes back into the sofa. he's quiet, just obeying instruction for a few long moments, attention intent on the skull on the mantelpiece. they probably both need the time, to gather thoughts and find a little peace.

his voice is more level when it speaks again. it's recaptured its lost size. ]

Do you at least feel better?

[ that's not really the question he should be asking. that's definitely not the question he should be asking. realistically, as a doctor and man well versed in the theoretical and (primarily second-hand, but far too closely, really) physical effects of substance addictions, John should be admonishing him at the very least. demanding explanations, enacting some sort of immediate intervention, searching the flat for the rest of it because if there's some coursing through Sherlock's body, there's bound to be more waiting to - but he doesn't. he doesn't even want to right now.

Sherlock Holmes has always been something of an enigma to John, much in the same way he imagines the man is to everyone else. what's he done with himself in the past? John doesn't know. what'll he do with himself in the future? he doesn't know that either. what he has come to learn though, in more detail than he ever would have imagined, is the present. the way Sherlock operates. he knows when a word misplaced will throw him off into a fit of agitation. he knows how to navigate the normalcy of daily life in the presence of a madman and a genius, knows which words are safely ignored, knows which silences are best paid attention to. he can gauge an atmosphere and mood from the shrill voice of a violin, and he's even getting better at anticipating roughly when the detective will next have to succumb to the banality of breakfast. sometimes he gets toast ready, and sometimes Sherlock eats it.

if there's one thing all that's taught John, it's that his flatmate's different. he's brilliant in ways he's never encountered before and is sure he never will again - and maybe, every now and then, brilliance needs more fuel than a boiled egg and toast soldiers (he genuinely tried serving those once, and honestly the response could have been better; there were no compliments to the chef) can offer him.

fuel. fuel for a mind that knows no bounds.

every now and then, he imagines what it might be like to be Sherlock. the thought almost always terrifies him, and he never dwells on it for long. ]

_{[ There's something to be said for relaxing; the moment John does it, Sherlock follows suit - perhaps not immediately, but there's a definite change in the way his spine curls; without all of that tension pulling him down into a fit of anxiety, things have become easier to deal with, so much so that Sherlock has taken to nuzzling his cheek into John's thigh quite unabashedly. It's a strange gesture, but then again, Sherlock's never really been one for normalcy, and that's not about to change with the addition of a very strong drug making its way through his system.

In fact, the cocaine is making this all easier to manage. Things are flitting about throughout Sherlock's head, and the room they're sitting in is made up of both dark and light, and it's like they're in the middle of something that no one should ever be allowed to see, and Sherlock's seeing it, cataloguing it, memorising it. It's all in the way John feels and it's everything in this moment - there's the scratchiness of John's jeans rubbing against the softness of his cheek, the warmth of his thigh seeping through and up into Sherlock's skin and then there his cotton shirt clinging to his skin, cold and yet hot all at the same time. There's so much to feel and so little time to think, it's everywhere, and it's a constant stream of nerves connecting pleasure with heat and comfort and lust, for there's certainly lust here, but Sherlock can't quite put it into words, into thoughts, so he doesn't.

Sense is the last thing he wants and yet it's always been the very thing he needs. ]}

Yes. _{[ The word is slow, broken and yet the very way it's said is sensual because he really does feel better - with those three, short letters, Sherlock has opened up to John more than he has ever opened up to anyone. He's never been able to properly articulate everything that goes on in his head, because saying that his mind stagnates is almost enough but it isn't at the same time, because it goes further than that, it's so deep and painful and crushingand it's maddening.

If he thought that grabbing John's wrist was odd, he didn't show it. He also didn't seem to think dragging his hand down towards his head was worth commenting on either, but he clearly expects something here, and John will be the one to figure out what that something is. ]}

[ the undocumented hazards of being more or less sober in the presence of your high best friend come down to having no rulebook for what to do when you find yourself in a more intimate situation that you know what to do with. one minute he's freshly home from the pub, ready to sit down with a cup of tea for maybe a half hour or so and then head to bed - the next he's sitting on the sofa, Sherlock's head in his lap and the warmth of his cheek pressing into his thigh in a gesture that's unlike any side of the man he's ever seen.

thing is, it doesn't bother him. it really doesn't. somehow - god knows how, the mere idea of putting the concept of closeness of any kind with anybody (Mrs. Hudson somehow not included, she's always been an anomaly) and Sherlock in the same thought would generally be enough to give him a headache - this doesn't feel out of place. Sherlock's somehow smaller in his eyes than he'd been when John left earlier that evening, wrapped up behind none of his usual bravado, just laying there and vulnerable in a way that's frighteningly human. the closeness fits. the gesture's oddly well-received, communicated well enough physically even if John can't get his head around understanding why it placates him quite as easily as it does. so he leaves it - because it's fine. if Sherlock feels safe enough here, drug-addled, to give John an honest-to-God glimpse of something softer, then it's fine.

Sherlock speaks, just one word, and there's the release of a breath John didn't even notice he'd been holding since Sherlock started nuzzling at him. good. good, alright. there's something about his tone that tells John more than just the surface of it, opens a doorway to the extent of the relief the drugs have offered - the truly feeling better. inflection's everything sometimes, and John for one knows the difference between a little and a lot; this has helped Sherlock on a level he can't possibly hope to understand, but can at least appreciate. ]

Good.

[ John's hand moves easily as it's dragged by the wrist, and once he picks up on its direction there's only the slightest pause before his palm idly sweeps darkness aside on a forehead and comes to hover against the top of Sherlock's head. his hands are more than practiced in what to do when they find themselves here, and his fingers move of their own accord to map the new texture, smoothing through and over and tentatively teasing at individual locks like they've done so many times before through so many different shades and lengths and volumes. usually it's autopilot, but he's paying a little extra attention now, like keeping thorough record of the coarseness of Sherlock's hair is going to be vital somewhere down the line. and who knows, maybe it will. when you live with the world's only consulting detective, you start to find the importance in the little things.

Sherlock's so familiar, but all it's taken is this one tiny shift and it's like he's been living with a stranger this whole time, like Sherlock's some foreign object again with so many traits to learn and so many things to explore. he can't help the way that's like a siren call. can't help how, when the cards are down, the unknown's just as much a lure to him as Could be dangerous. and it's always Sherlock, isn't it? once he gets too comfortable, once he thinks he knows everything he needs to about everything that matters, it's always Sherlock to throw him a bone - to shifts things up and make him assess new details, give him something fresh to bite his teeth into.

who's to say it won't come in useful one day, knowing the way Sherlock's hair reacts to disruption? whether it does or it doesn't, he's happy to offer whatever grounding this much can give the younger. far be it from John to refuse a perfectly polite (he's sure a lot of people would agree when he concludes 'silent' and 'polite' are more or less synonymous in regards to a certain someone) request. ]

Then it's fine.

[ perhaps not forever, but for now, he's willing to take a raincheck on the fallout of this little slip. i'm glad you feel better. stay that way for a while.

... no, he's sorry, but there's only so long he can sit still with his flatmate's face wriggling around in his lap before he has to start fidgeting. the both of them are comfortable enough (which perhaps makes it all the more uncomfortable without a little recognition - if they're going to have those awkward i-was-high-what's-your-excuse moments in the morning, he'd rather just make an active comment on the situation here and now), so for decency's sake his fidget is verbal. ]

Comfy?

_{[ The thing with rulebooks is that there's never any room for creativity. John's better off without one, especially when he's dealing with someone like Sherlock - sticking to the status quo has never really impressed Sherlock, and that opinion wouldn't change simply because it's John. Generally speaking, mind, there aren't many rules for what one should do when a sober flatmate stumbles in on their high flatmate - it's mostly a play it by ear sort of deal anyway (and for whatever it's worth, Sherlock seems to be finding this a pleasant experience rather than an increasingly uncomfortable one which is where cocaine use tends to end up whenever Mycroft finds out - and he will find out, it's just a matter of time, really. He'd obscured the CCTV cameras as best he could, but that in itself was an odd act - his brother will suspect foul play, but he's out of the country for the moment. He'll take his punishment later.

For now, he's practically purring - John's lap is incredibly comfortable - even Sherlock's surprised by that fact. It's not exactly a habit he indulges in, resting his head in people's laps. He supposes he could make an exception for John - he's warm and he knows precisely how to stroke Sherlock's hair back in the way that he likes it.

And it's not that Sherlock's offering some docile part to John - it's more that whilst on the drugs, his mind isn't as manic; suddenly the world is easier to cope with, and personal space isn't such an issue. Generally speaking, the only personal space Sherlock likes to break is other people's - he's not a fan of people invading his own, especially without his permission (and whilst John generally has that permission, the fact that he doesn't abuse it doesn't exactly go unnoticed by Sherlock). He supposes that he should stop nuzzling John's thigh, but it's comfortable and honestly, he's vaguely interested to see what John will do about it if he keeps it up - so he does, carefully moving closer to his crotch though he's acting seemingly innocently. Really, he might be drugged up, but he's still Sherlock - experiments are the foundation of everything, and John... he won't mind. He doesn't think. Because Sherlock knows where he'd like for this to go, but he's reasonably certain that that's the drug talking more than himself.

Still, it'd be interesting. ]}

Yes, actually.

_{[ John meant it as a way of staying stop. Sherlock doesn't. ]}

You're a doctor. You know what cocaine does.

_{[ Meaning yes: Sherlock is actually reasonably horny. What did he usually do? Well, he slept around. Safely, of course. But that option seems far away, and he's comfortable. ]}

[ oh. well, that's fairly uncomfortable. Sherlock may be enjoying himself well enough, but John's suddenly not so sure he should be wrapping him in polystyrene at the expense of his own boundaries. "you know what cocaine does."? really, Sherlock? you couldn't even try to offer me a little room for ignorance and making out of this situation with the complete and guiltless ability to act as if nothing ever transpired when it comes to breakfast tomorrow morning?

John's immediately all too aware, yet again and more acutely, of exactly where Sherlock's head is. he hasn't taken the hint, that's for sure. right up in there, and getting dangerously closer with every press of his face. he's even more aware, though, that Sherlock knows it— and if so, doesn't that mean he was essentially just propositioned?

right. christ.

excuse him if his fingers tighten instead of smooth, taking a grip and doing his best to firm it without being too rough, but he'd like for you to stay still for a second thanks very much. this is getting a little too close to a lot out of his comfort zone for his liking, and he needs an undistracted second or two to think. ]

Probably not one of your better placed illuminations, but thanks for it.

[ that's "that was a nice curve ball you just threw me, give me a second to decide whether to catch it or let it hit me in the face will you?" to you, Sherlock.

please feel free to clarify your meaning any time now. I surely misunderstood. ]

_{[ Sherlock is endlessly amused. He is, apparently, not entirely ignorant when it comes to themes of a sexual nature - in fact, it's something he knows quite a lot about. There's always something useful in being addicted to drugs, beyond the experience - he got into things he never would have touched sober; London's nightlife had never been more intoxicating, people had never been more interesting, and sex? Well, it became a game. Turn into the one person they want most for a night; see where it leads him; say yes to everything, and the world was his, they were his. It was glorious and it aided him in being the terrific actor he is today - cocaine, it turns out, has opened quite a lot of doors for him (and some of those doors he'll never be able to close - but that's what you get when you take a risk. Nothing is ever perfect).

His past has become more use to him than he'd ever like to admit - Sebastian had offered him more than just a way out of his own head one night; he'd offered him a lifeline, and honestly, that's something he'll never be able to forget (despite how much he's loathe to actually admit it). Having an addictive personality means that he's quite prone to to getting into things that are incredibly bad for him, like picking up habits he really shouldn't have started, stumbling into exciting places without the forethought to turn around and go back, venturing into the human psyche a little too far each time and coming back with a wealth of knowledge that's useful even to this day - he's always treading an exceptionally thin line between genius and idiot, insane and sane. At least with cocaine, things are simpler; suddenly there's order out of chaos, organisation out of haphazard storage and a place for every single thought, where everything is so much more accessible and easily managed. He could do anything.

They could be heroes, just for one night (because music is always there, rhythm and lyrics and notes guiding him through life; it's in the way he moves and shifts and saunters - rhythm is everything he is, gentle or frantic, deranged or sensical; it doesn't matter, it's always one end of the spectrum and he loves it, can't get enough of it, does John even hear it? Because Sherlock hears everything - hears him breathing, hears his heartbeat (but he can't, not really, but it feels like he can - like he's connected to the world and to everything he's touching, John especially, always John). He makes an odd sound, and it's because he knows that in this moment, this one right here, everything is his - he has so many choices and every single one of them leads down different, twisting, winding, interesting paths, because this couch is his, this room is his, John is his, will always be his, has never really been anyone else's.

He might not know it yet, but John would follow him to the ends of the earth, because Sherlock can see it, can feel it, and it's all so mesmerising, all so exhilarating . He takes a moment to close his eyes and to smile (he's missed this so much, it's everything he needed and so much more, if only he could understand, if only he could show him), and he pauses with that sudden grasp of his hair - did he just moan? He thinks he did, but he's not entirely sure he wanted to (but then, John shouldn't have done something so suddenly, not when he's drugged). He tries to cover it with a lazy cough but no, no, he knows it's not working, and he really can't bring himself to care, not for now.

He does stop, though. Stops everything from the second John's grip tightens - he's just holding himself there in a slightly awkward position, waiting for him to do it again. ]}

Says the man that apparently needs confirmation of an obvious proposition. It's not difficult, John.

[ that. that was definitely not a sound he was banking on hearing from Sherlock in... well, more or less ever. but he does hear it, along with the pathetic attempt to cover it up which floats effectively over his head because he heard it and no amount of conspicuous coughing's going to cover that up. brilliant. what do i do with that?

John's busy willing the sudden jolt of his core muscles to ease (it's a natural reaction, just a perfectly natural reaction to that noise coming out of anybody's throat when the face attached to said throat's close enough to embedded in his crotch - perfectly natural) while Sherlock talks, but by the time he does the doctor's collected enough that his response is immediate ]

Sherlock, you're—

[ the tone's incredulous, a loud reprimand, bordering on anger and it sounds as though he's about fly off the handle (or at least animatedly hop off the handle, let's not kid ourselves here he's never been one for overzealous domestic paddies)

but then he stops, thinks, and it sinks in - properly, this time. he's just been propositioned out of the blue. by Sherlock Holmes, of all people. he lets out a breath that's caught up in a laugh because it's ridiculous, it's absolutely ridiculous and he can feel himself smirking lightly and who could blame him? if someone at the pub had told him he was going to get home and his best friend was going to roll around in his lap until he could be bothered to suggest sex, chances are he'd still be sat there howling now, and probably would be hours later.

never a dull moment when you live with the world's only consulting detective.

there's still disbelief this time he speaks up but the volume's back to average, and it's more familiar, closer to the day to day really? of flatshare life. John's back on the playing field, fully refreshed and ready to wade in having reminded himself of the basic underlying principle that keeps this whole thing well-oiled and working like near enough clockwork: Sherlock Holmes does things and John Watson watches him do them with varying degrees of generally stunned incredulity. more often than not, he laughs.

that's not to say the things the man does are actually funny, but what can you do? it's either laugh or cry. ]

You can't just throw it out there like it's business as usual. "I'm high, you've had a crap night, how about it? Fancy a go?"

[ John's grip is still a steady presence - good, if he's going to do as he's asked for once then that suits him down to the ground. when finding yourself unable to predict a genius' idiot next move (an idiot's genius next move?), having him still rather than moving about to god knows where is probably about the biggest comfort you can afford.

well, this is all perfectly surreal. ]

Edited 2012-11-23 02:30 (UTC)

_{[ He couldn't help it. It wasn't what he wanted to do, it really wasn't - but there comes a point in which being quiet is impossible, especially when his hair is gripped like that, especially when he associates that action with nothing other than sexual encounters he's had in dark alleyways behind pubs and clubs that he really had no business in going through with but he did anyway for the thrill of it all. London's nightlife had always been interesting with a creative amount of distortion, with strobe lighting making everything so bright and unnatural, alcohol forcing things into dodgy haze and drugs dragging people's inhibitions out into the open - it was fascinating, and it helped him through a point in his life that would have otherwise been incredibly boring. Boring enough, certainly, for him to lazily contemplate suicide before scoffing and moving on to anything and everything else.

He can practically taste that life on his tongue; it's what happens when he mixes with the drugs again, the world feels so much closer and people are so much easier to understand, because his emotions are working, his head is working, and jesus doesn't John just look gorgeous at the moment, all surprise and uncertainty and the smallest hint of intrigue, like Sherlock is an improbable crime scene or a midnight London chase throughout the backstreets of a city practically fuelled by danger. It's almost like he's danger personified - sweeping into John's life and trapping him up in the whirlwind that is everything Sherlock has ever been, forcing John to either join in or fuck off - christ, he's so turned on right now, he hopes it's not too transparent but it probably is because his trousers are tight and even bending in such a way that makes it less obvious. It doesn't work, but he tries. It's even in the way John's voice sounds when he's about to genuinely tell Sherlock off - it shouldn't hit him the way it does, it shouldn't roll through his spine and settle at the base of his hips, but it does, and he can't quite tell why. He supposes his level of masochism is showing alongside his intentions, but he can't quite bring himself to care, because John looks utterly breathtaking and he'd do anything for that man to take his breath.

He's not usually this intense - or at least, not in this way, not like this; his intensity is usually piqued by crime scenes that make no sense, in psychopaths that long to know that they've got his attention, in clues that don't fit in with every other piece of data - but right now, the only thing that's interesting him is the idea of skin on skin, of feeling John's breath against his neck and it's horrible, because his mind keeps conjuring up these incredibly dirty images that become more and more graphic the longer he stares. At some point he has to bite his lip and look away as he carefully drags himself up (don't let your erection get stuck in an incredibly uncomfortable position, that's the goal right now. So far so good, oh, god, it feels good, stop), and the laugh is better than the anger, because suddenly it's a positive and positive could mean yes, could mean I'm interested.

He's seen how John's pupils react. He's categorised it, even; there's a folder based on the attractions and interests of one John Watson, of his relationships and his sexual flings - oh, there aren't any names in there, just descriptions and quiet judgemental comments that scream of a jealous best friend, but it's not really meant to be read that way - which is fine, because Sherlock is the only one to ever read it anyway (and he knows how it's meant to sound; he's the bloody author, for fuck's sake). He has half a mind to throw caution to the wind right there as he swings his legs around to place his feet firmly on the floor - leverage, though it seems innocent enough for now. He tilts his head just so, leans in whilst he places a hand pointedly on John's thigh, lazily allowing it to subtly slide up - so subtle that John might not even notice it, not at first - he holds eye contact before carefully looking away and down towards his lips. He has flirting down to a science, but this isn't really Sherlock: this is just a compilation of actions that usually get him laid - or at least garner enough interest to head in that direction.

He's a brilliant actor even when his he's higher than he has any right to be - he might even be slightly better, because for whatever reason, he's relaxed and he's playful and he's genuinely interested. ]}

Why not? You're interested, I'm interested. It doesn't have to be any more complex than that. I believe the term is 'friends with benefits'?

_{[ He shouldn't be allowed to get this close to anyone. He's practically purring as he lets his predatory expression slip for a few seconds - purposefully, of course; John should know what he's getting into. He probably does, because by this point, he's already letting his breath flicker across John's neck neck as he thoughtfully moves to coax a bruise upon his collarbone, fingers dragging his jumper and t-shirt underneath down just enough to leave his mark.

Sherlock is good at everything. Did he have to be good at this, too? ]}

[ Sherlock's moving and Sherlock's rising and suddenly he's right there with a warm hand to replace a warm cheek, and John might have been in the middle of a protest or a question or he might not have been in the middle of anything at all but he can't remember. whatever it was, he isn't in the middle of it anymore. his attentions for now are caught up in the way Sherlock's looking at him. and it's close, isn't it? that look. he's seen Sherlock look at him before, obviously, but not like this. like someone could knock the bloody wall in with a wrecking ball and he'd barely even blink. like he couldn't look away. like he wouldn't even want to.

looking at him like he wants him.

bizarre. weird, and it should probably feel wrong or out of place or something... but nothing John's bothering to register, not when Sherlock's eyes flit down so obviously and leave him trying to figure out where Sherlock Holmes could possibly have gone to leave behind this person. a person who's capable of looking at him like that. there's no time to be anything other than dumbfounded.

oh, hang on, that's my cue. i was a little distracted trying to look at some unspecified bit of Sherlock's face that isn't his eyes or his mouth because suddenly i'm not sure what my eyes are saying ]

Oh yeah? Interested, am I? Good of you to let me kn—

[ ah. somehow, instinct took over and he's almost... well, he's sort of... christ, is he flirting back? his tone's more of a teasing challenge than genuine sarcasm - that is, right up until it's cut off by a change in his best friend's expression that leaves him beyond any questionable doubt of the honesty behind his proposition, silences John instantly. then there's breath at his neck and soon after the tug of fingers to clear space for lips at his collarbone and god; John's face falls slack as Sherlock pulls a bruise up through his skin, body twisting into the motion and a hand making its way to rest around Sherlock's upper arm, loose and supporting (of himself, probably; who gave Sherlock the right to be able to do that, Sherlock with a head full of stuff and a talent for everything, is there a single stone he's left unturned?). jesus. to kill a reaction he catches his lower lip between his teeth, bites down as his eyelids fall half mast and the atmosphere ignites out of nowhere. all too suddenly John's aware that his decision now is his decision for the night. and he has to make it quick.

leaning slightly forward into Sherlock, lips resting just so over a head of dark hair, John lets out a shaky huff (nervous? maybe. then again, his flatmate's high and giving him a hickey and he's about to walk on through the door it opens so he figures he's got grounds) that's more breath than laughter. it's when he talks that his answer's obvious - maybe a little more for a voice lower and rougher in his throat than it had been just a few moments ago than for his choice of words, though both help. ]

If you bring this up over breakfast, I swear that lung in the fridge is going to wind up somewhere you don't want to find it.

[ hesitant, yes, but engaged. god help him, he's curious. this is something new, something intriguing and immediate and inexplicably (inexplicably? that's a fucking understatement. he'd have dubbed Sherlock a stubborn celibate up until five minutes ago, and now he's... well, he's making no effort to hide exactly how very wrong John was, is he? in fact, he seems to be going to great pains to prove him wrong - intentional or not, there's no better way to give an example than up close and personally)Sherlock and John wants to explore it almost as badly as he want to stand up, walk to his room and shut the door on the whole thing. more so, actually, because he's not leaving the sofa to make that tea.

when was the last time he ignored a call to Come Along, John? he doesn't remember. that's when. he just doesn't remember.

why change the habit of a companionship now? ]

Edited 2012-12-25 00:15 (UTC)

_{[ Being close is really the least of John's worries, because when Sherlock gets an idea, it's very rare that he actually lets it go. The problem with all of this is that Sherlock hadn't intended to become genuinely intrigued by the way John's lips part slightly as he just looks at the way Sherlock's studying him, and he suddenly finds his very expression incredibly endearing, which wasn't the plan at all. No, he just wanted to get laid, and now he's seeing too many things all at once, and it's all caught up in that one, short gaze. It's electric - or at least, that's how it feels to Sherlock, and maybe he's just imagining it, maybe it's just the drug lighting his brain up in an incredibly exquisite way, but he's intoxicated, and he really should stop staring at his neck, shouldn't he?

Fortunately, John's flirting with him long before he's actually realised it - and that gives Sherlock cause to smirk, his lips ghosting against his skin as he gently pulls back. ]}

Well, if it wasn't for me, you wouldn't even know yourself.

_{[ Which is true - apparently, despite obvious bodily reactions, John's been rather obliviously fancying Sherlock from the sidelines, which certainly did Sherlock's ego well. He's doing much better at this particular moment in time, actually, because now he's allowed to be close enough to feel John's pulse without it being distinctly weird, and he's allowed to drag his teeth along the dip of his collarbone, as well as being able to plant obvious kisses up and along his neck. Sherlock has decided that this is a definite improvement over not being able to do any of those things, especially when he senses John above him, his lips close enough to kiss the crown of his head and his breath lightly tickling his curls - it makes him shiver for one quick second, a soft sound of amusement escaping his throat before he can clamp down on it.

Sherlock's hand has taken up where his head had left off in John's lap, lazily palming the crotch of his jeans as he tilts his head up, his lips finding their way onto his jaw, eyes lidded as he watches for a reaction. ]}

Mm, don't make promises you won't be able to keep, John. You and I both know that I'd likely be delighted with whatever hiding place you might choose for said lung.

_{[ Really, he works quickly - because the moment John's said yes (and let it just be said that it was with far too many words), Sherlocks already leaning all over him, kneeling on the couch as he practically pins the doctor in place. Sherlock finds himself letting out a low breath, one that he'd apparently been holding onto as he moved closer - so he was nervous too, but that's really the only sign Sherlock's willing to show before he's back on track, his free hand moving to rest on the back of John's neck as he pulls him into their first kiss of the night. ]}

[ sherlock's everywhere, hair tickling his jaw and teethlips dragging over his collarbone and up along his neck, in his head—

"If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't even know yourself"

—cocky sod but probably right, always right, when is Sherlock Holmes not right? Sherlock who opened up closed paths. Sherlock who dumped fresh life right down at his feet when he'd just about run out of energy and places to look. Sherlock who's palming around at his crotch oh god John gives a short grunt at the recommence of lazy ministrations, a grunt that slides into a hum of approval as lips find his jaw and brown eyes - not quite brave enough to look down - close instead.

the upkeep of a familiar back and forth tugs his lips up in a grin and his response is an immediate: ]

Sure you want to risk it?

[ his eyes open, curious as he feels Sherlock shift, only to find themselves catching the end of a slow exhale and the sight of two watchful eyes in a combination that stops everything, just for a moment. hah. wow, this is happening. we're both in our own ways stupid enough that this is actually happening.

and then fingers press against the back of his neck to pull him forward through whatever space is left between them and John abandons thoughts of their stupidity.

there's an odd little jerk as their lips first touch, like he's startled, like he's about to pull away - and he does a little, pressing back against the hand that guided him forward, but not enough to sever contact. he'd been thinking he'd try to avoid this - kissing. it's just... it's just sort of personal, isn't it? and that's stupid, because John likes kissing as much as the next person, never thinks twice about it once he's comfortably ensconced in his latest relationship of the moment, but thinking about it now it seems in theory a more intimate gesture than most. a sort of universal display of physical intimacy, something that can be chaste and heartfelt or obscenely sexual or some bizarre mix of the two and that had seemed like the sort of territory best avoided, if only for the sake of his long-suffering straight man sensibilities.

only, there are a couple of things he realises in quick succession. firstly, John Watson, you're about to engage in some sort of sexual encounter with your best friend. secondly, his hand's a layer of denim and underpants away from being pressed against your prick, will almost definitely find itself there eventually, and thirdly there're likely very few things more threatening to the entire concept of only being interested in becoming sexually involved with the female body than the likelihood you'll be making each other come before the hour's out. it's probably going to be easiest for everyone if you just abandon any and all nods to your determined heterosexuality until you've actually got even half a leg to stand on. ... after all, he's here for a reason. he said okay (in the most roundabout way available to him) for a reason - curious, right? for one night and one night only, Sherlock Holmes will be the experiment. might as well take the chance to explore all variables.

the hesitation lasts no more than a second before tension oozes slowly out as John leans forward and in, lips moving against Sherlock's in one careless drag - enough to allow him to identify that that won't be their pace to start out, far too slow for how quickly this has progressed and how quickly he needs to stop caring about straight straight straight and John's teeth sneak in immediately for a taste of lower lip and upper hand, grinning savagely and playfully as he moves in with lips again and almost bruising force.

it's all curiosity. John's sure it must reek of "what can I find what can you do what will you do" but he doesn't care, because he'll get his answers, Sherlock will give him his answers just as sure as they'll both be gasping fresh off the starting block by the time this kiss is done, and maybe those answers will be constructions - a careful plan of formulated responses configured and practiced with strangers (does he? would he?) for just such occasions as these - but John doesn't care. whatever he gets, he'll be learning something, seeing a side of Sherlock he's yet to explore, and the thrill of being so close to something new and willingly given is enough to help him part way to losing his head.

one hand moves up to clasp around Sherlock's thigh, firm and grounding and something to fucking hold on to as John breaks aside to drag in a short breath, his hips twitching briefly up into his friend's hand.

there's only one thing John can pin down for certain. this night's going to be a far cry from milky caffeine and crap TV. ]

_{[ He wanted to remain detached just like he always is whenever he finds a room with a stranger and slowly takes them apart, piece by piece until there's nothing besides Sherlock and a quiet desperation that feeds his ego in such a dark, damning way but it's always so delicious to feel that much control over one person.

He already has John trained so well; he's never too far away when he needs him, following his footfalls just so long as he can get his hit of adrenaline and it's fine, because Sherlock's got his fix and he should make sure his friend gets just as high as he is, just as euphoric, just as engaged. From one addict to another, a symbiotic relationship that's beyond anything he's ever had before because he's seeing colours and hearing melodies with every single touch, fingers practically singing as he scrapes his nails against the denim of John's jeans. Except it changes when his lips meet John's and he wonders if he's made a mistake because the notes tense and the colours quieten as John refuses to kiss back, those few seconds torturous as he waits, mouth still, for John to accept or reject him. His heart stutters below his ribcage proving just how human he is as those seconds seem to last hours but then he feels him press back, that initial faltering quickly forgotten as he bites his way into John's mouth. ]}

Always.

_{[ He wanted this to be a casual encounter but it isn't, it absolutely isn't because for the first time in his life Sherlock is about to become intimate with someone he actually cares for and the thrill sparks something else, something new and he can hear it, a metaphorical aligning of stars and universes and planets because it was always going to lead up to this. This moment where Sherlock's head has failed him and it falls apart, thoughts tumbling out and tainting everything they touch until John scoops down and picks it all up like it isn't pure poison, like it couldn't rot his fingers the second he so much as brushes against it, carefully and kindly piecing him back together and he's never been more aware of just how much he needs John, actually needs him only now it's physically as much as it is emotionally. He hates all of that dead air sitting between them like a quiet barrier working to keep them separated, cruel and pointed and poignant so Sherlock decides to break it with one quick, somewhat jagged motion that halts their kiss for the shortest of moments before he's back on his lips, teeth clinking uncomfortably with the fierceness of the movement. Sherlock finds himself settled on John's thighs, knees parted either side of his doctor as he involuntarily grinds down in a hungry attempt to find friction wherever it might be, totally born of selfish intent because he's feeling particularly ignored, his erection straining painfully against the confines of his pyjama bottoms. Hardly fair, that John should receive a casual palming off and not reciprocate, but Sherlock will take the initiative here too as his hand snakes down between the two of them until he reaches John's fly. Clever, insistent fingers make quick work of the buttons keeping him from his goal and he slinks his hand down into his underwear without any warning, pulling John free from the trap of his jeans.

He's indulgent as he wraps his fist around him and drags up because the feeling of skin on skin sends sparks through him - his cock twitches against John's stomach uncomfortably but he ignores it in favour of finding what makes John tick, what pressure he likes and what pace - forever questioning, forever insatiable when it comes to the man below him because he inspires it and encourages it but he is the moon and John is the sun because all he does is relay information whilst John radiates light. ]}

Edited (whoops) 2016-03-29 21:28 (UTC)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

hard to admit I fought the war on drugs.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

3 YEARS LATE STILL BETTER THAN NEVER RIGHT