John came home from the pub one night like every Friday evening. He’d had a rough day with Sherlock and a nasty murder case. Like almost every day out with Sherlock, it ended with a headache and hurt feet. Fridays were the days where he allowed himself a break (not that he didn’t disobey himself on other days), and went to the pub. This particular evening had been a bit rough and John became a bit more… intoxicated than previously planned. After a few, then a few more, then a few more to top himself off, he headed, or really stumbled, out to the curb to hail a cab.
When a cabby insane enough to pick up a blubbering drunk finally came by. John opened the door and scrambled inside, saying only “t-take me to Sh-hh…Sherlock.”
“You ‘ave to tell me where ‘at is, sir,” grumbled the cabby. “Wonky name ‘at is anyway, Sherlock.”
John murmured to him, “t-tuh…two t-two one b-bee Baker Street,” and promptly blacked out.
He woke up with a pounding headache and a dry throat to see streetlights and the door of 221b Baker Street above him. He felt too unremarkably weak and sick to trudge all the way up the narrow stairway to his flat, only to collapse once more on the couch or floor. He quickly fell back into a deep drunken sleep, wondering if the cabby had asked for cash, and if he’d given him any.
The next time he regained consciousness the first thing he saw was Sherlock on his laptop at the table from the couch. Thoughts rushed through his mind.
How the fuck did I end up here? Did I pay that cabby? What time is it? Do I have my cell?
“Oh you’re up, lovely.” A strong, low, gentle yet firm masculine voice came from Sherlock’s mouth.
“I-“ John managed to get a fragment of a statement out before Sherlock’s booming voice started shooting answers at him.
“You really need to keep track of yourself when you drink, John. Drinking has various health risk factors you should be aware of as a doctor. I expected you to be drunk last night but as I tried to bring you upstairs you seemed adamant about sleeping on the stoop, so I paid the cabby and left you there. Later you seemed more compliant. I led you upstairs, you led yourself to the couch and now here we are. Your cell phone is in the right hand pocket of your coat on the chair and if you check it you’ll see it is 2:13 in the afternoon and your sister called you twice. Drunks tend to lose their cell phones. It’s really impeccable you should still have yours. Your tea is in the kitchen.”
“Right,” John managed. “Thanks.”
After peeling himself off the couch, he made his way to the small kitchen where Sherlock usually did his experiments and picked up the cup of tea from where he would usually sit. Piping hot. As if Sherlock knew that he was about to wake up.
“Yes. It was obvious from your breathing regulation and eye movement when you were to wake so I decided to make tea. Hangovers are not, I presume, pleasant. Please stop bothering me with predictable questions, John, I’m thinking.”
John sipped the tea.
“Er, Sherlock? Did you put cinnamon in my tea?”
“Mmm…” Sherlock mumbled.
“Yes, yes it helps with headaches.”
John took the tea to the bathroom where he stripped off his grimy, sweaty clothes. After doing so he realized that he’d forgotten his towel and quickly weighed his options. He could call for Sherlock to bring him one, though the chances of him responding at all were slim to none, or he could put all of his rancid clothes back on, which was hardly worth the effort. The only other thing he could think of was to run through the flat nude and grab one himself but he didn’t want the landlady Mrs. Hudson to catch a face-full of, well, him. He decided to go for option A and revert to option C if necessary.
“Sherlock! Could you bring me a towel? I’ve forgotten mine!”
Surprisingly enough, moments later Sherlock arrived and rapped his knuckles on the bathroom door.
“Jesus thank you!” John gasped.
“Try not to forget next time,” Sherlock said as the door opened. “I was in the middle of research about tree frog poison.” He pushed the door open more, accidentally it seemed, with his foot. As John scrambled to shut the wide open door, Sherlock handed him the towel and glanced down at John’s, well, member. To say glanced would really be a misstatement because in all reality his gaze met John’s area for the entire time it took him to fumble the door closed. John waited for Sherlock’s footsteps to tell him he’d left, but heard nothing.
“For fuck’s sake go away I’m in the loo!” Sherlock’s footsteps then led him away from the bath, leaving John his privacy.
Stressed by the day before and the last night, woozy from the headache and the nausea that accompanies hangovers, and frustrated with the mental image of Sherlock eyeing him out, John decided to have a go at himself in the shower.
Stepping into the hot comforting water was like heaven. He coaxed his half-hard cock into submission, dismissing the idea that Sherlock had half-aroused him. Images of bouncing tits, glorious bodies, and full-rounded asses filled his view as he beat himself mercilessly. He envisioned a nice brunette sucking him dry, bobbing her head, all the while stroking his pulsing prick. He leaned on the wall of the shower and stroked harder and faster, to the point of no return, and suddenly the glorious head of brown hair turned into a head of luscious black curls, the performer looking up at him to show smooth alabaster skin accompanied by blue, green, and gold eyes, a deep pure voice saying his name…SHERLOCK?
John let out a long grunt and gasped for breath after finally coming… to Sherlock? He shook the image of Sherlock’s longing face looking up at him from his mind and suddenly took notice of the piercing hot water pelting his back. He looked up to see that he hadn’t even turned any cold water on to begin with. He hopped out of the piping hot shower, shut it off, and grabbed his towel.
John made his way to his bedroom with no trouble, but what he didn’t notice was Sherlock looking up at his rear as he passed, holding his gaze there as if unaware there was any danger of John turning around to catch him. He was right.
John slowly got dressed, careful not to look out the window at the piercing light. With tender care so as to not disrupt his headache, he closed the blinds, opened the door to the bedroom, and started to make his way to the couch when
“John, are you ready?”
“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock, for what? Can’t you see I’m a bit hung-over?”
“A bit is an understatement. The fresh air will do you good. I’ve called a cab.”
“Fucking hell.” John mumbled under his breath.