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“I don’t mind” John says, looking back at Sherlock. He takes his time settling himself back into his chair, the alcohol in his bloodstream making his movements heavier, more deliberate. He can feel the warmth of Sherlock’s knee through the thin fabric of his trousers, finds himself oddly reluctant to break the contact. He looks up from staring at his hand to find Sherlock looking at him, intently but through a haze of drunkenness that makes his expression even more difficult to read than usual. After a long moment, Sherlock shrugs, and John takes the opportunity to remove his hand and resume the game.
They back and forth for a while, playing their game; one leaning forward as the other leans back, John almost boneless in his seat – the warmth of the whiskey, the familiarity of his old chair and the quiet intimacy of the moment contributing to his easy contentment. He’s not sure he remembers many evenings like this before Sherlock...well...before. There were the quiet moments between cases, of course, the occasional disastrous games of Cluedo and Sherlock climbing the walls when there were no real murders, no chases, no danger.
They weren’t like this though. Those moments didn’t leave him with a warm tingle at the base of his stomach and a feeling of overwhelming, bone deep contentment. It isn’t just familiarity, John realises, a peaceful evening back at 221B with his madman of a flatmate, it’s the realisation that this is a moment he thought he’d never have again.
He watches Sherlock as the drunken detective leans back into his armchair, as content and unhurried as John has ever seen him. John can see the gears grinding in his head as he tries to make sense of John’s clues. Sherlock pauses as he thinks, whiskey glass suspended mid gesture, and John leans forward to hear his answer, still quietly laughing about Sherlock being the current King of England. John finds himself studying Sherlock’s face while he’s distracted, a moment rare enough for it to register with him even now. He looks different now that he’s back, but John isn’t sure if that’s because of the time that has passed or if it’s because his previous memory of him wasn’t quite vivid enough, as if it couldn’t capture all his different angles and shades. Almost as if he’d remembered him in black and white and here he was, suddenly, in full Technicolor. He almost laughs with the absurdity of it.
He is so caught up enjoying the moment that it doesn’t quite register with him when Sherlock leans forward again with a grin, one arm braced on his own leg and the other holding his glass carefully to the side.
The warm feeling John has had ever since they came back to Baker Street settles more prominently at the base of his stomach and he looks at Sherlock, their faces suddenly so close John can smell the whiskey on his breath. It’s startlingly intimate and John feels himself flush as he realises it. It also occurs to him that he doesn’t really want to move away. He blames it on the alcohol. Almost.
If Sherlock notices how close they are he doesn’t make any mention of it, merely furrows his eyebrows and begins to ask a question, waving his glass expressively, his entire body swaying dangerously forward with the motion of it. John reaches out and places his hand on Sherlock’s upper arm to steady him, grinning as he does it. “Steady” he laughs, holding his arm firmly until he’s satisfied that Sherlock isn’t going to fall out of the chair.
It takes John a while to notice through the comfortable fog of drunkenness that he has, in fact, been holding Sherlock’s arm a lot longer than strictly necessary to ensure his balance. Not only that, but he has begun running his thumb up and down the seam of Sherlock’s jacket sleeve, feeling the smoothness of the fabric and the warmth of Sherlock’s body. He takes a quiet breath and lifts his head to look at Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s expression is soft, a look mostly made of fond curiosity and amusement. His eyes are half closed and his mouth pulls into a smile at the corners.
“I don’t mind” Sherlock says after a moment, catching John’s look of confusion. John half laughs, hearing his words echoed back at him. And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Sherlock has never minded. Never minded what people thought of him, of them. Never minded when John was slower on the uptake, when John badgered him to eat or treat people gently, when John manhandled him into the flat or, indeed, out of it when he was in one of his moods. Mister I-Correct-Everyone, and not one word on the subject when people made an assumption about them. Not one. It was always John who was quick to correct them, quick to make it clear that it wasn’t like that. He wonders for a moment what that says about him.
Inhibitions dangerously lowered and feeling absurdly safe in the little bubble of their evening, John gives Sherlock’s arm a gentle squeeze. It feels nice touching him like this, feeling him quite solid under his fingertips.
It’s not as if John hasn’t seen him plenty of times since he came back from, well, wherever he was. They’ve spent hours together, solved cases, planned napkins for god’s sake – and yet. It still sometimes feels like one of the many, many ridiculous fancies that John had when he was gone. One of the hundred fantastic ways that life would be different if only he would stop being dead. Feeling the solid weight of him under his fingertips, that’s different. John can’t deny that, can’t dismiss it as a fantasy. And he had those, didn’t he? When he was alone, before Mary, when the feeling of missing Sherlock was so unbearable he barely wanted to breathe. Even after Mary, it wasn’t as if it just stopped.
John runs his hand up Sherlock’s arm slowly, carefully, watching Sherlock’s face. He moves along the top of his shoulder, Sherlock’s eyes watching him almost impassively. When he reaches the edge of Sherlock’s collar he pauses, takes a breath, tracing the border of fabric and skin with the very tip of his thumb. Hesitantly, he moves his hand and places it on the side of Sherlock’s neck, feeling the warmth of bare skin against his fingers just because, in this moment, he can. He can feel Sherlock’s pulse under his palm, strong and fast. It’s a moment so reassuring, so ridiculous John can feel himself huff out a laugh even as his eyes begin to sting with the emotion of it.
Sherlock’s eyes flick slowly from side to side, less intense than usual, less certain but still cataloguing, gathering data about John in this moment. John moves his thumb and gently runs it down the curve of Sherlock’s jaw, beginning near his mouth and ending just under his ear. He can feel Sherlock shudder slightly; hear the ice in his drink clink against the side of the glass. He smiles and does it again, feels Sherlock lean into it.
Feeling braver, John lets his thumb wander further, dragging it along Sherlock’s jaw and letting it graze along his bottom lip. He’s not sure what this is. It’s not reassurance any more, he’s certain about that. Sherlock allows the caress, his lips parting slightly and John smells the whisky on his breath for a second time. John knows something has shifted inside him over these last few minutes, and where he flushed the first time, this time it’s maddening. He feels himself lean forward before he makes any conscious decision and sways even closer to Sherlock, one knee touching the floor and his other hand coming forward to rest on Sherlock’s thigh, an echo of an earlier movement.
Sherlock’s eyes flick down to John’s hand and back up to his face, a ghost of a smile sweeping across his lips, one of the genuine smiles that reaches his eyes, crinkles the skin there. John smiles back, reassured. He holds his position for a few moments, looking at Sherlock, trying to read his face. Feeling the warmth of his breath ghost across his skin.
It isn’t much of a decision; not really, it’s an impulse when John leans forward, his lips brushing slowly across Sherlock’s. John’s eyes slide closed, feeling self-conscious under Sherlock’s constant gaze; even made brave by the alcohol and Sherlock somewhat impaired, John feels like Sherlock is reading all of his secrets when he looks at him like that.
Sherlock’s lips are warm and pliant, pressing back very lightly against John’s. There’s no reluctance, Sherlock doesn’t move away, doesn’t say anything. Just lets him. He doesn’t mind, John thinks to himself.
He isn’t sure what he expected. He tells himself he didn’t expect anything, that he never thought about it before, but it’s too much of a lie. He presses just a little harder against Sherlock’s lips and his hand leaves Sherlock’s jaw, curving around the back of his head and burying itself in dark curls. Jesus, how long has he wanted to do that? He’d even admit to wondering what Sherlock’s hair felt like. Under his fingers it’s very soft, slightly sweaty and makes John’s palm itch with the intensity of his desire to tighten his grip and give it a tug.
He uses his hand to pull Sherlock towards him, tilting his head to one side and moving his mouth more deliberately against Sherlock’s. John feels Sherlock tentatively place his hand on his shoulder. He feels his jaw move and his lips part against his own. He definitely feels the moment when Sherlock sighs as John gently fits his bottom lip against his own and sucks softly, finally tastes the whiskey on his breath. Warm and rich and with an undertone that can only be Sherlock, John smiles to himself at the laughable romance of that thought.
Limbs still heavy with the weight of all the evening’s drinking, John slides all the way out of his chair, kneeling carefully between Sherlock’s legs, keeping their lips in contact all the while. The kiss remains gentle for a time and John feels strangely in control of the situation; odd really, given that he’s remarkably drunk and kneeling between the legs of his, well, his best friend. That’s what they’d agreed, hadn’t they? Well, John had agreed it; Sherlock had seemed a bit out of his depth.
John’s illusion of control lasts for a few more comfortable moments before Sherlock’s tongue suddenly darts out and licks decisively at John’s lips, gentleness replaced by a more pressing sense of urgency. Sherlock’s hand slides up to rest on the side of John’s face; long fingers managing to bury themselves in John’s short hair while his thumb rubs gently along the line of his cheekbone.
John’s lips part and Sherlock sweeps his tongue into John’s mouth. John imagines he can taste the curiosity in the way Sherlock strokes along John’s tongue, the roof of his mouth, the edge of his lips. He straightens himself up, tilting Sherlock’s head back slightly and pressing himself against Sherlock’s front, chest to chest. He can feel his heart beating against him and tightens his grip on the back of his head, his lips beginning to tingle with the force of being pressed so tightly against Sherlock’s.
Sherlock’s hand slides down from John’s head, along the curve of his back and settles firmly against the base of his spine. His fingers deliberately digging in to the bottom of John’s back, holding him firmly in place. John has the presence of mind to gently roll his hips against Sherlock, his position allowing him to gain enough pleasant friction to make him tingle. Sherlock groans slightly against his mouth.
A sharp thud from downstairs startles them both out of their moment; a shared looks confirms that this is real life coming to interrupt the cocoon they’d made for themselves here. A fragile space they had made out of whiskey, companionship and contentment that had removed them, however briefly, from all the considerations of life away from this moment. From the bustle and noise, the concerns of other people.
John feels Sherlock pull back slightly and sees a look flicker softly across his face. John thinks it might be disappointment, but it’s always so difficult to tell with him. Perhaps it’s because that is the feeling that begins to settle heavily on John. He isn’t quite sure what the last few minutes have meant, but he knows that he isn’t quite ready for it to stop. He looks Sherlock very deliberately in the eye, leans forward and gently nips at his bottom lip. Just a graze of teeth against soft skin, and Sherlock sighs quietly. Sherlock carefully removes his hand from John’s back and takes hold of his arm. John disentangles his fingers from Sherlock’s hair, using the assistance of Sherlock’s hand on his arm and the leverage of his other hand against Sherlock’s thigh to gently stand up and settle himself back into his own chair. He gives Sherlock’s knee a squeeze and then retrieves his glass from its abandoned position again the arm of his chair, listening to the sound of footsteps slowly climbing the stairs.