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There were three perfectly good reasons why John H. Watson rarely drank enough alcohol to actually become drunk. Unfortunately, this evening, he had managed to forget all of them. Between the happiness of seeing Bill again, the sloshed bonhomie of the other RAMC lads at the pub with them, the relief of having finished a busy and tiring week, and the slight bit of frustration he was feeling about the situation with Sherlock, he'd been so distracted that he hadn't realised that he was getting drunk until the room had become a bit...tilty.

By then, of course, he couldn't quite reason that getting more drunk would be bad, so he went ahead and accepted that challenge from Hobson involving the garish cocktails with the stupid names, and then he'd accepted congratulations on beating Hobson in the form of several shots of Southern Comfort. So now, here he was, wandering around London in a series of zigzags, chuckling to himself at nothing, with a blue tongue. At least, he thought it was still blue, but he'd last looked at himself in the mirror behind the bar about forty minutes ago, and it might have faded since then.

The first reason that John preferred not to get drunk was that his usually quite keen sense of direction went all to hell.

There was no way that the pub they'd been to had been more than fifteen minutes walk away from Baker Street. In fact, that was why Bill, kind sort that he was, had chosen that particular pub. But John had been walking for at least half an hour and still wasn't home. The second time that he passed the pub, now closed, he began to think that he might have gotten a bit turned around. The third time he passed it, he was sure, so he stepped over to the kerb and started trying to hail a cab, not an easy task at this time of night.

It was a nice, mild evening though, and the walk had been really quite pleasant. John was feeling a bit mellower now, all the stress of the week faded away. It had given him time to reflect on the Sherlock situation.

The Sherlock situation being thus; Sherlock was shy when it came to sex.

This had been entirely unexpected. When John had steeled himself to declare his feelings for his flatmate he'd been expecting either outright rejection or to be immediately seized and shagged to within an inch of his life. When neither had happened, it turned out to not be bad at all.

What had happened was that Sherlock haltingly (adorably) admitted that he felt the same way that John did and that he would like to accept John's offer of a more intimate relationship. He also said, however, that he was a virgin and wished to take the physical aspects of their relationship slowly. He never used words like 'tentative' or 'nervous' to describe his attitude to sex, but they could both be applied, and John was well aware of it. For whatever reason, Sherlock became tense as a wire whenever John touched him somewhere that he hadn't touched before, or when John suggested they try something new, or even when his own unaccustomed physical reactions blind-sided him.

So far they'd had some lovely snogging sessions, scrunched up together on the sofa or leaning against the worktop in the kitchen. John had got naked and let Sherlock trail his eyes and hands over his skin until he was so wound up and desperate that he had to stop him and ask him to either touch his dick or let John touch it himself, which had led to John having a wank in the bathroom while Sherlock watched him, peeping wide-eyed from the doorway. Once and (thus far) once only, John had convinced Sherlock to take off his shirt and had gently and carefully kissed his throat and his tummy and the lovely pink pips of his nipples, until Sherlock pushed him away, breathless and twitchy, saying it was too much.

And John could wait. He really could. He was a considerate lover; in fact that was the only good thing that most of his recent ex-girlfriends had been able to say about him after Sherlock had driven them off. And Sherlock was important to him. Thus John would wait until he felt ready, he would gentle him along while he discovered what his body could do and how good he could feel.

And in the meantime, he would be so fucking horny that he only had to think of Sherlock and his underwear started to feel too tight.

A taxi finally pulled up and John got in, getting an odd look from the driver as he asked for Baker Street. It was really close, he supposed. He almost told the driver that he was going the wrong way when they set off, but then he remembered his little walkabout and elected to keep his mouth shut.

They'd been driving for less than a minute when John realised that he had started rubbing his palm up and down his thigh. He was getting a bit...tingly. He sighed.

The second reason that he preferred not to get drunk was that he got aroused really easily.

Thinking about how sexually frustrated he was had been enough to set him off, he realised. What a cruel sense of irony his body had. He relaxed back into the seat and sighed deeply, hoping he could calm down a bit before he got home. Sherlock had stayed in tonight, doing some sort of experiment with different types of wood stain, and in all likelihood this would be one of the evenings when he would feel calm and restful enough to slip into John's bed and sleep next to him. Not that that was a bad thing, not at all. John loved to feel Sherlock's warm, skinny body in his arms as he fell asleep. Trouble was, if he got hard during the night, he knew from experience that Sherlock would get nervy again and pull away from him. Maybe even exit the bed.

He either had to calm down considerably or risk trying to have a wank in the bathroom while Sherlock was distracted.

He was still weighing up the pros and cons of bathroom wanking, and the likelihood of distracting Sherlock sufficiently that he wouldn't notice the bathroom wanking, when the taxi pulled up outside Speedy's. John paid and got out, staggering a bit as his feet hit the pavement. Carefully, trying not to let the fly of his jeans squeeze his half-hard cock any more than was unavoidable, he fished his keys out of his pocket and let himself in, hung up his jacket and hauled himself up the stairs.

Wank in the bathroom or no, the sensible part of John's brain was already making plans for what he'd need to do before he went to bed. His hangovers were rarely that bad, but it wouldn't hurt to take some aspirin and drink a big glass of water before he went to sleep. Probably a good idea to put some water on the bedside table too, maybe the bin nearby in case he felt queasy.

He got to the top of the stairs and opened the door to the living room, still thinking thoughts of cool water and soothing medicines, when he got an eyeful of his flatmate-slash-boyfriend and sensible brain just...disengaged.

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the living room staring at the television screen while he rubbed a towel through his hair. His upper body was bare, the skin made shiny here and there where trickles of water had escaped the towel. His lower body was clad only in cotton pyjama bottoms.

Only in pyjama bottoms. No panty line, or male-panty-line-equivalent that John couldn't think of a word for. Sherlock's bottom was encased in nothing but a loose, thin covering of lusciously soft cotton.

His gorgeous


Peach of a bottom.

The third reason that John preferred not to get drunk was that he got impulsive.

“John, have you seen this on the news? About the bribery scandal? It turns out the council member had three or four hwaaah!”

John would have to wait to find out what the bribed council member had three or four of, because right now he had two very lovely handfuls of firm, supple buttock and couldn't give a fig about anything else.

Sherlock put up surprisingly little resistance as John pressed his face to the back of his neck and sniffed deeply as he marched him forwards, the towel sliding free somewhere and thumping onto the floor. He amenably reached out and put his hands on the wall when John got him close to it, turning to look confusedly over his shoulder.

John just stared, enthralled, at his striking face, the gleam of his pale eyes against the slight flush on his skin, and waited to see what his drunken, horny, uninhibited brain would do next.

Sherlock had just opened his mouth to speak again, when John's brain caught up with the situation. His thoughts seemed to be running in little bulletins, and so went something like;

-Sexy Boyfriend pinned against wall!

-Hands on Sexy Boyfriend's bum!

-Hands not enough!

-Sexy Boyfriend won't allow penis near bum! (Yet!)

-What is next best thing?!

I know, said John's drunk brain, and he dropped to his knees.

“John, what are you- Oh god what are you doing John?!”

Sherlock was always thorough in the shower, so he smelled of nothing but soap and skin and laundry detergent, the cotton soft and body-warm against John's face. He squeezed the flesh in his hands tightly, squishing his own face, and gave a self-satisfied little hum


It occurred to him that, when he sobered up, he might feel a little embarrassed about having sort of motor-boated Sherlock's bum. For the moment though, he was in happy land. He let out a contented sigh and shifted on his knees a bit in a vague attempt to stop the seam of his jeans from digging into his cock.

“John...oh god John, that's so warm!” Sherlock said breathily, and it took a moment for the realisation that he was talking about John's sigh to filter through John's mind.

Sherlock had felt his sigh, felt it in a very intimate place, and...well. What was a right-thinking man to do with an idea like that in his head?

John pulled down Sherlock's pyjama bottoms, re-grabbed and spread his luscious buttocks and got his face right back in there. Sherlock squawked in a very un-Sherlock-like way, but didn't make any attempt to put a stop to it. John breathed and breathed, inhaling muggy, earthy skin scent, exhaling warmth over the sensitive flesh of Sherlock's anus and perineum. His fingers groped and kneaded, smushing his own cheeks between Sherlock's cheeks.

It was so nice down here. He was going to spend his holidays here, if Sherlock would give him half a chance.

That was a thought; was Sherlock likely to go along with much more of this? John slipped a hand around to feel for...yes! Oh yes! Christmas!

Sherlock was hard.

It was difficult to perform a smug grin while your face was crammed in somebody's arse crack, so John didn't bother. He just stuck out his tongue. Hot clean skin and crisp strands of hair, and upon feeling the tight little pucker of Sherlock's anus against the flat of his tongue as he licked, he became aware that his cock had escaped his underwear and was having a bit too much fun inside his jeans. He let go of Sherlock's cock long enough to unzip himself and let his own cock stick its head out, and when he reached up to grab Sherlock's again – oh happy day! - Sherlock's hand was already there.

They were on the same page. And it was a really good page too, one worth dog-earing for easy future reference.

John didn't fuck about this time, he just got his tongue straight back where it wanted to be, teasing and flickering against Sherlock's tightly furled hole. Sherlock let out a low, strained noise, his fingers clenching around his cock, and John settled his hand more tightly around Sherlock's and gave it an encouraging tug. Sherlock, unusually amenable, took the hint and started slowly, exploratively stroking himself, and with every stroke that little ring of muscle twitched against the tip of John's tongue.

He could have quite happily knelt there and enjoyed that sensation all evening, but after a minute or so, he decided he could come up with something better to do. With Sherlock no longer requiring guidance where his cock was concerned, John returned his hand to match its twin on Sherlock's lovely buttock and spread him a bit wider using his thumbs. Sherlock moaned at this, then let out a very flattering ululating wail when, at the moment the sphincter muscle gave another twitch, John made his tongue firm and gently pushed it inside.

In some part of his brain, John was thrilled by how easily his tongue slid into Sherlock's anus, how responsively Sherlock reacted to its presence there. The rest of John's brain, that being most of it, was singing a jolly little song of glee over the fact that some part of one of their bodies had made it into the other person and nobody had had a nervous breakdown or died of blue balls.

It was heavenly. The ring of Sherlock's anus was tight around his tongue, but gradually loosening as he slicked and squirmed and teased. He tasted oily and earthy and fascinatingly clean, and the soft, deep noises of pleasure he was making were the sweetest music John had ever heard. And of course, his hands were still thoroughly filled by the magnificent, firm curves of that peachy bum.

His tongue was deep enough in Sherlock now that it was starting to get sore in the back of his mouth, but he didn't care. His nose was squashed up against Sherlock's tail bone, but he didn't really care about that either, except that it meant that he had to tilt his head back every now and then to take a breath, and every time he did his tongue slipped out just a little way, which made Sherlock emit an utterly tragic little whimper.

It occurred to John that, if he could find or possibly invent some sort of snorkel that fitted into his nostrils, he could stay down here for absolutely ages. Sherlock was brainy, maybe he could invent one for him.

John became aware of the movement of Sherlock’s hips increasing, and some bit of his mind registered the fact that his boyfriend was most likely going to come quite soon. Oh no, he thought, I'll probably have to take my tongue out once that's happened!

But, he added, I'll have made Sherlock come. I'll be the first person ever to have brought this man to orgasm.

At this, John became peripherally aware of quite a lot of fluid slip-sliding down the shaft of his very excited cock. Dealing with that was something else to look forward to. Maybe Sherlock would even watch him again.

Even though he'd been expecting it, it still felt abrupt when Sherlock's sphincter spasmed around his tongue and Sherlock cried out above him as he came. His thighs and buttocks clenched tight, struggling to keep his body still, and John rubbed and rubbed, with hands and tongue, as he shuddered his way through it. Finally, he calmed.



“John, you oh! You can...can stop that now.”

John gave Sherlock's crack a little goodbye-for-now smooch and drew back, but his balance was so bad that he toppled further back than he intended and ended up sitting on his bum on the floor, aching knees raised, cock sticking up out of his flies.

He must have looked a mess, saliva all over his face and his clothes dishevelled, but he could take some comfort in the fact that Sherlock looked like he'd been hit by a fucking cyclone. He was red in the face and panting, his hair unaccountably messy and mostly vertical, leaning heavily against the wall, which in turn was liberally decorated with a big splatter of semen.

Who's going to have to clean that up? John thought to himself. Muggins, that's who.

“You're drunk,” Sherlock said, not really accusingly but not really anything else.

“Yep.” John saw no reason to prevaricate.

“Is that why? Because you aren't thinking clearly?”


Sherlock thought about this for a moment. “Oh,” was what he finally came up with.

Then, looking a bit shaky and unsure of himself, he stepped out of his pyjama bottoms, crossed the few steps over to John and stood over him.

“Why? Why now?” he asked.

John licked his lips and wiped his face, stared up at the wonder that was Sherlock's naked body.

“You're beautiful,” he said. “And when I'm drunk I get impulsive. And horny. And I keep walking past the pub when it's shut.”

Sherlock looked puzzled, which was sexy.

“Three times,” John elaborated, and to his surprise, Sherlock let out a soft chuckle.

Then, still looking somewhat uncertain, he lowered himself to his knees, kneeling up astride John's thighs. He reached one long, cool hand down and wrapped his fingers tightly around John's cock.

John let out a deep sigh, which almost obscured Sherlock's words; “I don't know how to do this on somebody else. You'll have to help me.”

John nodded weakly and wrapped his own hand over Sherlock's, got them moving. Sherlock's grip was a bit too tight, a bit too dry, but John had been aroused for so long now, frustrated for even longer, that it wasn't going to take much to finish him off. He wrapped his free arm around Sherlock's waist and pulled himself forwards to he could put sticky lipped kisses on his lover's clavicles and sternum and his sweet, pink nipples. He rested his forehead against Sherlock's chest as he groaned and came, Sherlock's hand tugging the spasms out of him, his gaze boring into the top of John’s head. John sighed and sagged against him.

Then he giggled and fell backwards onto the rug.

Sherlock grinned down at him, and John could see semen on his hand and splattered on his stomach and the inside of one pale thigh. God, he looked fantastic like that.

“I'm beginning to see your point about sex,” Sherlock mused, and John wondered which of the many points he'd made Sherlock was referring to. “I think we should do things like this more often.”

“I'm with you there,” John agreed. “One bottom percent.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.

John cleared his throat. “One hundred percent. Bottom.” He grinned.

Sherlock frowned.

“You've got a beautiful bottom and I want to be very nice to it,” John told him, and Sherlock's forehead smoothed out as he let a slight smile form.

“You're going to be a ruin in the morning,” he told John. “Let's go to bed.”

And they did.