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Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot

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When John woke up, he didn't know where he was. The light in the room was entirely wrong. The bed felt unfamiliar, the sheets far softer than anything he had at home. Ugh. His mouth tasted like a whiskey sour had been poured over an ashtray and left to sit for roughly eight hours.

John winced and rubbed his face. He could remember being at the pub with some of the Yarders. Sherlock had been there, surprisingly, and by his third Scotch had been pink-cheeked and voluble. They'd all cheered noisily when the clock struck midnight. He had a vague memory of kissing Molly Hooper.

Right. It was New Year's Day. Well, it wouldn't be the first time he'd started out the year in a stranger's bedroom. At least this time he was wearing pants.

Molly had kissed him on the cheek at midnight and had he--? Oh damn. He had, he'd grabbed her and kissed her on the mouth. Oh bloody hell. Not Molly's bedroom.

But it wasn't Molly's bedroom. And it wasn't a stranger's bedroom either. John knew that ceiling. It was much like the one in his bedroom. Upstairs. He carefully turned his head, feeling tendons creak. Just visible beneath the duvet was a wild mop of dark curls.

Try as he might, John could not remember a single thing that might have led to him waking up mostly naked in his flatmate's bed. He sat up, his head throbbing with the movement. He looked at the night table to his right and blinked repeatedly. There was a bottle of personal lubricant that he recognised from his own night table upstairs, and some of the condoms he kept up there as well. One of the packets lay torn open and empty.

Oh god. They--no, surely not. Carefully, with a glance over at Sherlock to be sure he was still asleep, John reached under the duvet and into his pants, looking for any telltale stickiness. Nothing. But given that he had his pants on, he might have cleaned up after... whatever happened. Maybe nothing happened. With a gut-twisting mixture of reluctance and curiosity, John lifted the duvet and peeked beneath it.

Right. Apparently Sherlock didn't believe in sleeping in his pants.

And oh god, his cock lost no time in pointing out that he was in bed with a very attractive naked human being, and started to make its interest known.

Of course John had thought about it. With half of London assuming they were sleeping together, naturally he'd thought about it. But Sherlock had shown no interest and John was quite content to keep pursuing women, so, that was all there was to it. Except...

There was a muffled grumble from beneath the covers, and John froze. He was tempted to make a dash out of the room, and see if he could make it into his bed before Sherlock woke completely. Just avoid the entire conversation. Maybe Sherlock didn't remember what happened either.

Ridiculous. If he, John, had managed to reach a few conclusions, Sherlock would no doubt be able to take one look at the night table and all the tangled jumble of their clothes lying in the floor (oh shit) and determine not only exactly what had happened, but in which positions, and the resulting number of orgasms. And there was no time for John to clean up all of the evidence.

Besides, what if Sherlock did remember? Wouldn't it look weird for John to have tidied everything away before he woke up?

John's heart thudded painfully in his chest as panic tried to reach up through his innards and strangle him. Maybe he should just lie down and pretend to go back to sleep. Yes. He lay back down on his side facing out, acutely aware of the other person lying just inches away from him, his muscles tight with the effort of not touching.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was rough-edged with sleep, and the sound was so like a growl that John had to hide a shiver. "What are you doing here?"

John didn't know if he was relieved or disappointed that Sherlock didn't remember either. "I'm... not sure," he said. "I just woke up."

"I'm naked," Sherlock said, sounding petulantly confused. "I never sleep naked."

"I should probably--" John braced himself to throw back the covers and slink away.


John waited.

"Turn over."

John turned over to see Sherlock with his head propped up on one hand, looking much more bright-eyed than John felt. He was looking over John's head at the--at the night table. Sherlock's eyes widened infinitesimally, and one eyebrow twitched. "I see," he said.

"You don't remember either?" John ventured.

"No," said Sherlock. He didn't seem inclined to offer anything further, but looked back at John with something more intense than his usual discomfiting stare.

"So now what do we--"

"That seems a shame," Sherlock interrupted, and his voice dropped a touch further. "That's the sort of thing I'd like to have a clear memory of."

"Wait, you--you're not, well--"

"Not what?"

"Not upset?"

"Judging by the pattern of clothing strewn on the floor, and given that you're still in my bed, I'm assuming things were mutual and at least mostly satisfactory," Sherlock said with a sniff.

John's ego might have stung a bit at "mostly satisfactory". "But you're saying you're pretty sure we, well--" just say it, Watson "--got off together."

Sherlock leaned over, looming over him. "I'm saying," he said, moving a little closer, "that I'd like to remember something from this incident."

John was used to Sherlock ignoring rules of personal space. He was used to deep, intense looks that had given people the wrong idea about them in the past. He was not used to both things happening at once in the context of a warm bed and so much bare skin. Sherlock was about to kiss him, in his bed, while they were undressed. And it probably wasn't the first time. Of the million different things John could have picked to worry about at that moment, he opened his mouth to warn Sherlock about his breath, but Sherlock gave him no chance.

Their mouths connected and John forgot his hangover. Sherlock's lips were as soft as any woman's John had kissed, but the roughness of the overnight stubble on his chin and cheeks made for an intensely pleasing contrast. Then Sherlock's lips parted and his tongue teased out and--

And then John's face went cold as Sherlock pulled away, wiping his mouth. "John, go brush your teeth."

"I tried to warn you," John said. "You're not precisely minty fresh yourself, you know."

Sherlock rolled away and jumped out of the bed, heedless of his nudity. "All right, come on."

John had gotten used to Sherlock wandering around in various states of dress and undress, but this, this was an entirely different context, and John just stared, because now he could. It was impossible not to notice that Sherlock was long and lean, and well fit. Fitter than John, for certain.

"Come on, John," Sherlock said. "I want you back in that bed with fresh breath in five minutes."

Despite getting hung up on "I want you back in that bed", John managed to follow Sherlock to the bathroom. Standing side by side while they both brushed their teeth was far more intimate than it should have been, on an ordinary day. This was not shaping up to be an ordinary day. Sherlock finished first and stepped behind John. He leaned down and breathed warm against John's ear, meeting his eyes in the mirror. Sherlock slipped one of his hands around John's hip and curved possessively before murmuring, "Do you think if we do it again, it'll come back to us?"

John had a mouth full of toothpaste foam, and couldn't answer. Sherlock went on, "My arse doesn't feel like I was fucked last night, does yours?"

It was too goddamn much. Sherlock's voice was low in his ear, their eyes were locked together in the mirror, and John was fairly certain that was the first time he'd ever heard Sherlock say 'fuck' at all, much less in a context that referred to, well, fucking. So yes, John whimpered. Sherlock licked at the shell of his ear, then said, "Hurry up and rinse your mouth," before leaving the bathroom.

John did as he was told, then braced his hands on either side of the sink and leaned over it. Whatever had happened last night, Sherlock was obviously up for a repeat. Was John? He lifted his head and looked at himself in the mirror. Shouldn't they talk about this? They probably should, but later. If it had already happened once without talking, twice wasn't much worse. John shut off the tap and left the bathroom.

On his way back, he glanced into the kitchen. God, the kitchen table was a worse mess than usual, piled with paper as well as the usual chemistry equipment. There was a half-folded sheet on top of it all, like Sherlock had been building a tower. John shook his head to clear it. The kitchen table was definitely not important right now, not when Sherlock was waiting naked in bed.

And oh, Sherlock was waiting. When John went back into the bedroom, Sherlock was lying sprawled across the covers, one hand behind his head, while with the other he slowly stroked his cock, which was long and just barely curved. Any doubt John might have had ran screaming from the room. He started to kneel on the bed, but Sherlock stopped him with a frown, glaring at John's pants as if they offended him.

"Oh right," John said, and shucked them off. He was far less self-conscious than he'd expected to be. For all of his scars and slightly sagging or lumpy places, Sherlock was still staring at him with enough heat in his eyes to melt a glacier. He held out the hand he'd been stroking himself with to John and said, "Come here."

John took his hand and kissed it in the center of the palm, following up with his tongue. He could taste the thin bitter liquid from Sherlock's cock; it wasn't that he'd never tasted that before, he'd just never tasted anyone else's, and it was maddeningly hot. He licked the palm of Sherlock's hand in earnest as he knelt on the bed, slowly lowering himself to press against Sherlock's side.

Sherlock wrapped the hand that John had been licking around John's cock. The wet heat was a shock, and John gasped and let his head fall back. In response, Sherlock leaned forward and sank his teeth into John's neck. It was painful, and probably too soon, but John didn't want it to stop, the pain sending deliciously mixed messages down his nerve endings. He wanted more. A mental image of Sherlock just piercing his skin with his canine teeth sent a surge up his thighs and through his hips. That was new; it certainly wasn't something he would've ever thought he'd get off on.

He pulled away before the sensation got too overwhelming and kissed Sherlock instead. The skin of his neck was tender and stinging, and if Sherlock kept stroking at him at this pace it was all going to be over far too quickly. "Slow down," he murmured against Sherlock's lips, and reached down to still Sherlock's hand.

"But I want--"

John laid a finger over his lips. "I know. I do too." He replaced his finger with his mouth and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, bringing their bodies flush against each other. God, they were both so hard, John couldn't help but flex and press his hips against Sherlock's, making them both gasp. The occasional embarrassing roommate fantasy had in no way prepared John for the reality of Sherlock naked and writhing against him. When Sherlock pushed, John let him, and they rolled so that Sherlock was on top and wriggling between John's parted thighs.

When Sherlock took his hands and slid them up the bed, John almost protested, feeling absurdly vulnerable, spread out beneath Sherlock's thighs, his arms lightly pinned. But, like the bite on his neck, he found himself wanting more. He struggled experimentally, and was rewarded by Sherlock pressing his hands down more firmly. Then Sherlock nudged his thighs further apart and up, and John felt Sherlock's cock pressing behind his balls, rubbing against the crack of his arse.

"Sherlock, I'm not--"

Sherlock kissed him slow and deep, making little shallow thrusts of his hips that went no further than the slick rubbing of skin on skin. "I know. Trust me." The low growling rumble of his voice tingled its way down John's spine and threatened to turn his muscles to jelly. He nodded. "Turn over," Sherlock said, sitting back. Again John thought to protest, but the surging need and the low buzz in his brain made him want to obey more than anything.

He rolled over and Sherlock drew him up onto his hands and knees, curling his body behind. John heard the quiet click of a plastic lid, and a squirting sound. He had no time to doubt his trust in Sherlock before cold, slick fingers slid just between his arse cheeks, then down between his thighs, teasing strokes behind his balls before drawing away. Then Sherlock curled behind him again, and nudged his thighs apart. John felt the soft hot skin of Sherlock's cock sliding against his arse, then between his thighs, then felt Sherlock's hand slide around his hip to wrap around his cock once more.

Whatever they'd done the night before, they fit together as if they'd done this a hundred times. John found a rhythm, rocking between Sherlock's hand and the cock sliding between his thighs. God, he never would have guessed that feeling someone else's cock between his legs would have been so utterly arousing.

"Look at you." Sherlock's voice in his ear startled him, rough-edged and hungry. "You want me inside you, don't you."

"Yes," John said, "but not," his breath hitched, "not now." But he did want it. He could imagine how it would feel and oh god but he got even harder thinking about it. He thrust faster against Sherlock's hand, and got a low, evil chuckle in return.

"How long have you wanted me to fuck you, John?" Sherlock met his rhythm easily, thrusting with real force now. "Because I wanted to fuck you the first night we were together."

"Since then," John admitted, squeezing his eyes shut as he focused on Sherlock's hand and Sherlock's voice. They had wasted so much time and he wanted to make sure they didn't waste any more of it. "Fools, both of us."

Sherlock didn't answer, but bit John's shoulder and fucked his thighs faster, his hand almost blurringly fast on John's cock, holding him light and loose, just the way he liked--and how Sherlock might have known that already didn't bear much thinking. The tension was building bone-deep in his thighs, creeping closer to his cock. The feeling of anticipation, the growing intense pleasure, made John's senses go hazy, his breath fast and shallow. He was holding on by little more than a hair when Sherlock breathed into his ear, a deep, self-satisfied purr, "Come for me."

John couldn't have held back if he'd tried. He managed not to shout, which resulted in an undignified, strangled squawk of a noise. He didn't care, not when Sherlock was panting in his ear. When he finally stopped spasming in Sherlock's hand, Sherlock grabbed him by the hips. John squeezed his thighs together and nearly got his head knocked into the headboard with the force of Sherlock's thrusts. He braced his hands against the bed and pushed back.

Sherlock was making no attempt to be quiet. He grunted and growled and it made the hair on the back of John's neck stand up to hear such a normally eloquent man reduced to wordlessness. To know that he had reduced him to that. When Sherlock came, John felt him spurting on his thighs and bit his lip against a moan. Finally Sherlock collapsed against John's back, and John let the momentum carry him down to the mattress. He tried to ignore the wet spot against his belly in favor of the heat of Sherlock's body against his back.

They lay together for several minutes until their breathing had returned to normal. Sherlock had wrapped himself around John, effectively caging him with those ridiculous long limbs. It was almost reaching the point of discomfort, when Sherlock sprang up. "Wait here," he said.

He waited, but he rolled out of the wet spot first. John heard water running in the bathroom, heard the tap turn off, and heard Sherlock's footsteps veer off into the kitchen, then silence.

Sherlock appeared in the bedroom door, holding a wet flannel in one hand and a folded piece of paper in the other. He looked annoyed, which, given what they'd just done, John found more than a little disconcerting.

"So what's the note about?" John asked.

"You knew about this note?"

"Well, I saw it after I brushed my teeth," John said. "I was a bit distracted at the time."

Sherlock tossed the flannel to John, who started to wipe himself off while Sherlock read.

"'Dear John and Sherlock, First of all, the night table was not my idea. You were both a little worse for wear and Greg and I were worried about you getting home after the party, so we brought you. Sherlock insisted he could put himself to bed and took off all of his clothes. (Greg wanted to take photos. I kept my eyes closed!) John, you sort of passed out in the cab, and Greg said he wasn't going to carry your sorry arse up more stairs (sorry, those were his exact words), so he was going to leave you on the sofa.'"

John stopped what he was doing and looked at Sherlock with a dawning sense of unease.

"'I should have stopped him, but he thought it would be funny to put the two of you in bed together.'"

Oh god, thought John.

"'I swear, he's the one who went upstairs and found those things. Again, he wanted to take photos, but I wouldn't let him. Although you did look awfully cute! I hope your morning wasn't too awkward! Happy New Year!'"

Sherlock paused and grimaced. "'Love, Molly.'"

John set the flannel aside. "So we... didn't..."

"Apparently not," Sherlock said, tossing the piece of paper to his dresser.

"So this was..."

"The first time, yes."

John was struck by a horrifying thought. "Not... your first time, I hope...?" He glanced up in time to see Sherlock rolling his eyes.

"Mycroft doesn't know nearly as much as he thinks he does," Sherlock said, walking towards the bed. He lay down next to John and ran a finger along his jawline. "So did you mean it?"

"Of course I did," John said quickly. "Did you... mean it?"

Sherlock smiled, and it was a slow, wicked grin. "I never say anything I don't mean."

"Yes you do, you do all the time--" That was as far as John got before Sherlock leaned over and kissed him quiet.

"In bed," Sherlock said. "I never say anything I don't mean in bed."

John grinned and lay back, pulling Sherlock down to him. "Then start talking. We have a lot of time to make up for."