Baker Street Boys

33

Because Sherlock is like a drug and John can't not have him.

The whisky from the kitchen cupboard had been John's only company that night. Sherlock was out, doing God-knows-what, not needing him, not even wanting him along. He had been back, what? Two years? Almost and it showed. He had come to learn to care for himself, fed himself healthy foods nowadays without needing someone to tell him to and he had learned to get along better with people.

John was useless to him now.

Never mind that John still needed Sherlock just as much.

He had no idea how long he had been sitting in the dark, wallowing in self-pity and gradually emptying what was left in the bottle, when the downstairs door opened. John sat up a bit straighter, he didn't want Sherlock to see just how useless he really was. He counted the steps like a reverse countdown to when he was to be found out.

15. 16. 17.

Halt on the landing.

Hand on the door knob.

Door opens, eyes fall on John on the couch. Looking for any sign of anything, a struggle maybe or a tantrum.

Finding none.

1. 2. 3.

"John?" he asked confused. "Did something happen?"

John almost snorted. If only.

"Nothing," he said, stressing the no. Sherlock crossed the room slowly and came to stop next to him.

"What's wrong? Why are you sitting in the dark?" he asked and John shushed him with a hiss. Sherlock's mouth snapped audibly shut.

John held out his hand, palm up. He saw Sherlock's head move down sharply at the gesture, mustering it intensely before he, very carefully as if he was afraid to have misread John's intent, put his own hand in John's. John pulled.

It took some effort, but in the end Sherlock got the gist and he fell down heavily on John's lap, his knees on either side of his thighs. John cupped his head in one of his hands and the swell of his arse with the other, using it to pull him closer.

"John?" Sherlock asked again, a bit breathlessly and very, very confused. John felt bad for making him do this, but he couldn't stop himself either.

"I'm sorry," he said miserably, and, "Can I do this?"

"Can you do what? John?" Sherlock repeated, lost. It didn't take a genius to find out what when John ran his thumb over Sherlock's bottom lip, the one he had fantasised about biting raw so often, and when he ground his hips up and pressed the beginnings of his erection into Sherlock.

"Oh," Sherlock breathed and fell silent afterwards.

"Please tell me this is okay," John asked him deperately. He needed it, the reassurance that Sherlock was okay with going ahead, approved of John touching him and maybe more. He stilled his thumb on Sherlock's lip when none was forthcoming and took his hand away when it hit him what that meant. He cursed the alcohol in his blood that had made him think this had been a good idea.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John apologised. His hands both fell to his side limply. "Christ, I'm such an arse."

But Sherlock didn't move away now that John had released him. John searched his face but it was too dark to see much of anything.

"Okay," Sherlock agreed finally, barely above a breath.

"Okay?" John repeated. Sherlock just nodded, his eyes fixed on something in the vicinity of John's collarbone.