Baker Street Boys

33

"Okay," John said again. Unsure if this was what he thought it was, he brought his hands back to hold Sherlock's hips. He was still wearing his coat, ridiculously, and John moved his hands up to his shoulders and slipped it off him. It fell to the ground in an almost silent heap, a whisper of fabric that felt loud in the quiet flat.

Then John kissed Sherlock.

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Afterwards, Sherlock climbed off his lap and fell heavily into the couch next to John. He zipped up his trousers and his head hit the cushion, tilted up and staring at the ceiling wordlessly. John felt like a complete tit. The bliss of his orgasm was fading much too fast.

He cursed himself. No use in blaming the alcohol, he wasn't even that drunk. He had practically forced his best friend into sex. The best man he had ever known, an asexual, an innocent, a virgin, and he had forced himself on him by using pity as a lever.

John jumped up, a sudden surge of nausea making him run for the toilet where he promptly emptied the contents of his stomach. Sherlock was a few steps behind him.

"Are you all right?" he asked in a tone as miserable as John felt. John turned his head around, wiping his mouth and flushing the toilet. Sherlock asking an obvious question. It said more about his state of mind than any words ever could. John laughed mirthlessly.

"No, I'm fucking not all right," he ground out between his teeth. Sherlock hung his head for a moment and when he looked up at John again, his look was stony and shut off. John wanted to cry.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," he implored, his tone devoid of all the vitriol from a moment ago.

"Can you forget this ever happened?" It was a cheap shot, but if Sherlock was willing to forgive him, John thought he might have a chance of writing this off and apologise profoundly, showing Sherlock that he wouldn't take advantage of his friendship ever again. If he could just forgive him this one slip, John would prove it worth his while. He needed this so badly. There just was no way he could bear to lose Sherlock over a stupid mistake committed in self-pity. John would do anything to stop that from happening, but he couldn't turn back time.

"Of course. I'll delete it if you want me to," Sherlock told him solemnly. John scanned his face, looking for a clue as to what he was really feeling and finding none. He sighed.

"Yes please," he said, hating how weak he sounded.

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The next day wasn't as akward as John had feared. He supposed it helped that he was severely hungover, which made him realise, once more, that he wasn't getting any younger but still crushing on people that were unreachable like he was still in his teens. Something had to change.

It was made worse when Sherlock handed him a glass of ice cold water the moment John set foot in the kitchen, and two paracetamol with dry toast. Reminding John of how good a friend he was to him. His stomach churned at the thought and it was only half of it because of the aftereffects of the alcohol in his system. He went to sit on his chair, his head buried in his hands and the tips of his fingers massaging away the headache that was plagueing him until he heard the flat door in the kitchen close softly. Sherlock had left; him.

John had to go at this rationally and by considering all the facts.

Fact: He was attracted to his best friend. Counter fact: His best friend was asexual, thereby by definition not attracted to John or any person.

Fact: John was in love with Sherlock. Counter fact: Sherlock loved him back, but not in a romantic way. This would hurt like fuck in the long term.

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