Alcohol and Smoke

He lay on his back on the soft rug between the two chairs watching the fire light dance in the hearth over his eyebrows. He was pissed drunk…more than pissed. John would say he was wasted. The alcohol and smoke were both well past gone, but their buzz lingered enough that he really still didn’t want to move. He’d dropped there after starting the fire in the grate, but couldn’t remember how long ago that had been. It was still roaring, casting long shadows on the ceiling, so a part of him knew it hadn’t been too long…or long enough.

The chaos of details from the last case and the minutiae of the daily interruptions had dwindled down to two things. John was on a third date with a woman whose name he had chosen to delete and he was insanely, inexorably, inconsolably jealous.

The first issue of John on a third date was not unusual. Sherlock knew that a third date always constituted “the next step” in John’s relationships. John always took an extra long shower and spent an inordinately much longer time than normal in the bathroom. He always wore a special cologne that smelled like pheromones and tobacco to Sherlock. He always wore that blue button-down shirt that brought out the devilish gleam in his eyes and a pair of jeans so tight Sherlock was sure to cut off all blood flow to John’s nether regions. The fact that everything John wore on such an evening only served to send Sherlock’s brain into overdrive and his libido into meltdown was something he never cared to share with John.

He lay on the floor, trying not to think about why he was so drunk. He was jealous of the latest woman John had been with, and he hated that he only felt at peace when John was around. Sherlock knew he had no right to feel this way, but he couldn’t help it. After a long day on a particularly difficult case, he had needed John to be there for him, but John had chosen to go out with the woman. This had sent him into a spiral of jealousy and anger, and he had ended up drinking himself into near-oblivion.

“God, John,” he groaned out loud to nobody in particular. Mrs. Hudson had gone to her daughter’s house, so he drank and smoked until he could no longer stand as he tried to breathe through the pain that shot through his gut.

Sentiment. Lust. Love. Stupidity. Useless. But nonetheless, it was a part of him now. He knew it was beyond the ridiculous. Logically, he knew his physical attraction to John was a distraction. Logically, he knew love was only a series of hormones gone out of alignment. He could not reconcile himself to those cold hard facts when it came to John Watson.

He heard the door open and then close. John didn’t even try to remain quiet coming up the steps. Sherlock knew John knew he would be awake. He heard John pause at the doorway, probably debating with himself whether to open himself up to his roommate’s taunts or not.

Sherlock held his breath. One part of him wanted to say something rude about his evening. But the part of him that was humiliated by his breakdown wanted John to just go away. The decision to say something was taken from him as he saw John step into the room. Sherlock didn’t move. He watched John, shirt halfway buttoned and previously neatly coiffed hair in disarray, glance first at the sofa and then at the chairs.

“You alright?” John asked hesitantly.

“Fine,” Sherlock said slowly. He knew that if he said any more that John would be suspicious.

He stepped closer and kicked the empty rum bottle against the leg of his chair. Sherlock winced as John stooped down to pick it up and came back up with the vodka bottle as well.

“Sherlock?” he asked.

He growled. If he had been sober, he might have heard the concern behind John’s question. Instead, he heard the accusation that had been running through his brain in a frightening imitation of Mycroft’s voice.

“Leave m’alone, John,” Sherlock slurred, “It’s complicated.”

“I know it’s complicated,” John said seriously as he stepped into the kitchen to drop the bottles into the recycle bin. Their crash made Sherlock cringe guiltily. John continued as he came back and sat in his chair, “With you, it’s always complicated.”

He shot John a glare until their eyes connected. Sherlock held his breath. John’s eyes weren’t accusatory. They weren’t angry. They were concerned and curious.

“What happened?” John asked quietly.

“Nothing,” Sherlock answered quickly, his eyes darting away and back to the fire. He knew he had given himself away, but he couldn’t keep eye contact with John.

John dropped himself to the rug and lay down next to Sherlock. Sherlock smelled the sex on him and held his breath yet again. The smell was even more intoxicating than all the alcohol he had imbibed the entire evening. John grabbed his hand to get his attention.

“What happened, Sherlock?” John asked again, “Between the alcohol and the smoke, you’re blitzed. You’ve been on top of your game lately. You’ve been able to stay away from it all for such a long while. What…happened?”

Sherlock bleakly turned his head to look at John in the firelight. His brain told him to say nothing, do nothing. Instead, he leaned over and kissed John on the lips with pinpoint accuracy. He let his mouth linger, pressing against John’s shocked mouth before he quickly leaned back. Unable to look back at John for his reaction, he blankly stared up at the mantle. He saw John’s free hand move to his lips out of the corner of his eye.

“That was nice,” John said quietly and then quickly continued, “But it doesn’t explain the binge…”

“As ever, John,” he whispered, “you see b’do not observe.”

John’s hand pulled from his and Sherlock hoped that the sad whimper he heard in his head had not escaped his throat. John sat up and faced him, sitting cross-legged. Sherlock realized that John was taking up his unintentional challenge. He continued avoiding John’s gaze.

“You’ve consumed at least a bottle and a half of alcohol…I see no evidence of glasses and no remnants of mixers, so you drank straight rum and vodka from the bottle…The stench from the smoke is so pervasive, I smelled it when I walked in downstairs. Whether you had it or went out and got it, I don’t care. But it was enough that we are going to have to open every window in this building before the weekend is out so that Mrs. Hudson doesn’t have to smell it when she returns. It’s a good thing she isn’t here or you would be hearing from her…Of course, if she’d been here, you would have been more considerate and at least forgone the weed…or if I’d been here…Ah.”

John’s voice suddenly stopped short as he watched Sherlock. Sherlock had unintentionally tensed at the mention of Mrs. Hudson. He had tried to relax when John mentioned his own absence, but he hadn’t been able to keep John from noticing the change.

“That’s it,” John said quietly, “You were jealous of Amy. You acted out because you were angry that I was spending time with her. You didn’t want me to spend time with her. You’ve made that abundantly clear…But you knew I wouldn’t drop another date for you unless it was for a new case so you decided to drink and smoke yourself into oblivion.”

“Didn’t decide,” Sherlock muttered, “Jus’ happened. Sorry.”

“You chose to get the smoke, Sherlock,” John said, “You chose to hunt down the alcohol…I should have made sure it wasn’t around, but you had been doing so well.”

“Not your fault,” Sherlock said weakly, “Mine. I’m an idiot.”

“Yes,” John said with a wry chuckle, “you are.”

John stood and leaned over Sherlock from below his feet.

“C’mon, my drunk and stoned friend,” John said, reaching for Sherlock’s hands, “Let’s get you to bed so you can sleep this off.”

“Don’t wanto,” Sherlock slurred, “Wanto stay here…watch the fire…”

John hauled Sherlock to his feet using one of the lifting techniques Sherlock knew John had probably learned eons ago when he was in medic training. Sherlock’s body moved willingly even though his mind fought it. One of his arms went around John’s neck. The other landed on John’s naked chest, exposed by the partially buttoned shirt and John’s efforts to lift him. John’s arms wrapped around his waist to steady him and Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s.

For a moment, everything was clear again. He felt the alcohol and smoke still coursing through his system, but he was suddenly hyper-focused on John. His John. Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

“John,” he sighed.

They stood that way for several long moments. Sherlock felt the telltale sign that John was attracted pressed against his leg. He was about to say something, ask John about it, when John cleared his throat and pushed him away slightly.

“Let’s get you to bed,” John said gruffly.

Sherlock allowed John to guide him, leaning more heavily than he really needed to, reveling in the feel of John’s body so tightly pressed against him for the short walk to his room.

They reached the door and Sherlock stumbled. He would have sworn later that it was unintentional, but it knocked John into the wall with Sherlock tightly pressed against him. Sherlock’s drunken brain took advantage and kissed John again, this time, a little more fervently, a little more intently.

He was slightly shocked when John responded by wrapping one arm around his waist and plunging a hand into his hair. He couldn’t suppress the groan of lust that washed over him as John thrust his tongue against his lips and Sherlock willingly opened his mouth. John licked and nipped and pushed against his mouth for several long moments before he returned the kiss he had initiated. John’s tongue pressed the advantage and Sherlock gently sucked on the wet muscle. As he heard John’s moan, he felt the thrill go through him. Wrapping his arms tightly around John, he pressed himself closer. He could feel John’s hardness through his jeans.

“John, please,” he begged, dropping his mouth to the spot just below John’s ear and licking a hot wet trail to the cord in his neck.

Suddenly, Sherlock found his back against the wall as John flipped their positions. His mouth found Sherlock’s again for a moment as he ravished him with lips and teeth. John growled as his mouth dropped to Sherlock’s clavicle. He nipped at the protruding ridge and then gently licked the pain away. He thrust his pelvis against Sherlock and growled again.

“Is this what you want, Sher?” he asked roughly, “Is this why you got so wasted tonight? Were you so jealous of her that you had to get so drunk you couldn’t think straight?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock moaned as John’s hand slid from behind his back to push his robe open.

“And what do you want me to do about it?” John asked almost angrily, “What do you need from me?”

“All of you, John,” he groaned, “Please.”

John nipped viciously at his neck before he pulled back and looked at Sherlock fully.

“Why?” he asked tightly.

Sherlock growled and tried to dip his head to take John’s mouth again, but John pulled back, arching his back and pressing his lower half into him. Sherlock groaned again.

“Why Sherlock?” John asked again, “Why do you want me…all of me?”

Sherlock felt the blush rise unbidden. He didn’t know how to tell John his feelings. Feelings were useless and distracting. He also didn’t want his confession to come from drunkenness.

“It’s more than sex, isn’t it Sherlock?” John asked quietly. Sherlock could have sworn he heard wistfulness, and hopefulness in John’s voice as he continued, “You want more than a fuck, don’t you?”

Sherlock still didn’t respond. He couldn’t bring himself to make the admission that could possibly destroy whatever relationship he already had with John. John sighed and stepped back, putting the space of the corridor between them.

“John,” he whimpered. He wanted to reach for him but held himself still instead.

“Why, Sherlock?” John asked again, a half smile playing at the corners of his mouth as if he knew a secret that Sherlock hadn’t grasped yet.

Begging made him hate himself. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words he felt. Sherlock had never imagined crossing those boundaries, but he had imagined them, and that was why he was in this predicament. He had crossed the boundaries he would never have dared to cross sober.

John watched him with an enigmatic smile. Even stoned, he could see the curiosity in John’s eyes.

“I’m-I’m sorry, John,” he stammered, “I-I w-went too far. Let’s just chalk it up to being incapacitated.”

John’s eyes went cold and hard and Sherlock knew he had somehow failed him…again.

“If that’s what you want,” John said tightly as he ran his hands over his face and through his hair.

“It’s not,” Sherlock said quickly before he could think about his words, “I don’t want that…I want you.”

John’s eyes shot back to his and Sherlock saw the thrill of excitement and gasped. Could John want the same? Without thinking, he continued, trying to explain.

“I have wanted you since we met. You made it obvious you weren’t ready to- that you weren’t interested…But every time you’ve been with a woman, I want to lose myself, John. I can’t stand knowing you fucked them and didn’t want me that way…I can’t stand knowing that even though you’ve come home well and truly shagged tonight that I still want you. I want you with me…always…in all ways…but I don’t know how to tell you without sounding like the jealous git I am when I’m sober…I don’t know what to do, John,” he said sadly, “and I don’t like not knowing…especially if means not knowing how you’ll react…or whether you’ll hate me more than I hate myself for thinking I might have-“

“It wasn’t well…nor was it truly,” John interrupted with a sardonic smile.

Sherlock blinked. He tried to run back over everything he had said that would have elicited John’s response, but he couldn’t remember where he was going with his tirade let alone where it had come from.

“What?” he asked, hating himself for sounding like an idiot.

“I was shagged, but not well,” John said with a sad grin, “and it was definitely not truly since I had to think of someone else in order to get off.”

Sherlock blinked again and frowned. He had heard the words, but his drug and alcohol-flooded brain was not making sense of what he was being told. It took him more than a few seconds to realize what John had said.

“Who?” he asked numbly. He didn’t really want to know, but his tongue would not remain still.

“Who do you think, Genius?” John laughed harshly, his eyes cold again.

Sherlock watched him leaning against the wall. His arms were crossed, protecting his heart. His face was angry and annoyed, but his eyes glimmered with concern and not too little hurt. Sherlock knew he had done something “not good”, but he could not focus enough to deduce what it was he had done wrong this time.

“I don’t know,” he admitted sadly, “I really don’t know of any woman you’ve been with who you would think of while you were with another woman,” before John could respond, Sherlock continued boldly, encouraged by the drunkenness, “If I thought…had any true idea that you might be interested in me, I would hope, but you aren’t…you insist you are not gay, John…but I could help you-…You could close your eyes and-“

John snarled and stepped forward again, crushing him against the wall as his mouth crashed against his roughly. Sherlock whimpered as his arms wrapped back around John. John’s mouth invaded his again, his tongue sweeping deeply into Sherlock’s mouth, trying to possess him. His mouth took hold of Sherlock’s tongue and sucked gently but needfully. Sherlock moaned and pulled John closer. John ground his hips against Sherlock, his erection as evident as Sherlock’s. John released Sherlock’s tongue and he brushed his palate with his tongue slowly as he pulled back. He gently sucked on Sherlock’s lower lip for a moment before he leaned back again to grin at him.

John laughed again, “I think I like you drunk and high,” he said lightly, “I like this flummoxed Sherlock.”

“I don’t, John,” he replied petulantly, “I still don’t like knowing.”

John laughed again.

“How is it you can let me kiss you like that, press myself against you like this and you can’t know I want you, too, you stupid git?” John growled, the smile on his face belying the angry words.

“You want-? What-? How-? When-?” Sherlock stammered.

John smiled and leaned in for a chaste kiss.

“Let me take you to bed and explain everything, Sherlock,” he said as he wrapped his free arm around Sherlock.

“Yes,” Sherlock said drunkenly, “Bed would be good.”