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My Favourite Mistake

Summary:

A light little AU ficlet about John and Sherlock's first meeting at uni when John gets drunk and pounds on the wrong door thinking it is his room. It turns out to be Sherlock's.

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“You’re bloody gorgeous. I’ve died and gone to heaven.” John blinks serenely up at the figure.

“You’re wasted,” the figure growls. “You should know I can kill you most creatively and dispose of your body in a thousand inventive ways so that you will never be found. I assure you that I will never get caught. So unless you want me to extinguish your pathetic, little existence this very moment you better tell me who the hell you are and what the hell you are doing in my room.”

“Yes, that… That… That is amazing. Keep talking, Love.” John grins and stares up into those green-blue eyes, dazed. He presses his lips together in an effort to look patient and blinks slowly, staring expectantly at the lips that spilled all those elegant words with such precise diction and in an amazing rumbly voice. “Come on, then, I could listen to you for hours.” John offers a smile. “Tell me again how you’re going to kill me, I like that bit.”


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Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1: 1st Mistake

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Cover Art by Breath4soul

John hadn’t actually intended to get this drunk at the party. He’d only meant to have a few drinks here and there then make his excuses. But, after failing to avoid being dragged into quite a few drinking games, he is absolutely pissed. Thankfully, the party is held on the same floor as his room. After stumbling through the halls, he fumbles with the key, trying to fit it in the hole. It just will. Not. Work. Sighing heavily, he bangs his fist against the door, hoping Mike is still awake and won’t be too mad at him for being a drunk idiot.

“What is it?” A deep baritone voice growls from within the room and, before he has time to realise that that is not Mike’s voice, the door that he is propped against is flung open. He stumbles inward, smashing into a tall, lean bloke wrapped in nothing but a bed sheet. They crash to the floor in a heap, and a grunt of air escapes the sheet-clad fellow below him. The door swings wide on its hinges and slams shut somewhere below their feet.

They lie there on the wooden floor of the dim room, amongst the ill-defined shapes of books piled high, overflowing stacks of papers and objects he can only vaguely guess (within his altered state and the low light) are scientific in nature.

There is only a brief pause to process this upending of the world before everything is moving again. The stranger beneath him is struggling to wrangle with both his sheet and John. Long, lean, and smooth limbs flail wildly like some angry, albino giraffe.

John can't help himself. A fit of giggles overtakes him. A good tangle is always fun and he hardly has to try to make this bloke's escape more difficult. He obviously has more weight on him. The tall frame of the other boy is nothing but leanly packed muscle from what John can feel pressed against him. He's vaguely aware of the other man's growing frustration, but he can't be bothered to stop being a bother. He is content to just lay there and giggle. It's good. All of it. The warmth radiating from the press of another body. The friction and slide of this stranger squiriming to dislodge himself from beneath his alcholic-leaden body.

“Not how you thought your night would go, eh, mate?” John laughs just as the gaunt stranger finally manges to throw him off. He quickly has John pinned, straddling him. He can't help but be impressed.

“Now this is more like it!" He smiles and blinks up, bleary eyed, at the vision above him. A dark halo of curly hair showers around a remarkably young and pale face. Eyes the color of the sea on a stormy day, but sharp and piercing - full of heat and intelligence - flick assessingly over him. Perfect plump lips are turned down in anger. Pale skin, hardly contrasting against the white sheet surrounding it, makes it impossible to know where one begins and the other ends. He all but glows in the dim light of the room.

“You’re bloody gorgeous. I’ve died and gone to heaven.” John blinks serenely up at the figure.

“You’re wasted,” the figure growls. “You should know I can kill you most creatively and dispose of your body in a thousand inventive ways so that it will never be found and, I assure you, I will never get caught. So, unless you want me to extinguish your pathetic, little existence this very moment, you better tell me who the hell you are and what the hell you are doing in my room.”

“Yes, that… That… That is amazing. Keep talking, Love.” John grins and stares up into those green-blue eyes, dazed. He presses his lips together in an effort to look patient and blinks slowly. He's staring expectantly at those lips that spilled all those elegant words with such precise diction and in an amazing rumbly voice. “Come on, then, I could listen to you for hours.” John offers his most charming smile. “Tell me again how you’re going to kill me, I like that bit.”

Those magnificent eyes dart around the room, appearing confused.

“Idiot,” he grumbles, dismounting and moving away. John groans at the loss.

“Something I said, Love?” He mumbles at the ceiling, raking a hand through his hair.

“Don’t call me that,” the deep voice snaps. John seeks out the source and finds the tall, young man sitting regally on the edge of his bed, looking as if he is wearing royal robes rather than a bed sheet. John grins.

“What do I call you then?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“John Watson,” he offers. There is an oddly comfortable silence for several moments. “Sherlock... are you wearing any pants?”

“Nope.” The word pops on his lips. Defiant. Not at all ashamed.

John and Sherlock look at each other a long second and then they both brake down in a fit of laughter.

Notes:

All credit for the first paragraph goes to promptsforjohnlock! Thanks for getting my creative juices flowing.