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Sherlock smelt like an ashtray.
“We need to discuss this,” John said finally.
From behind his experiments, bundled in his dressing gown and ragged pyjamas like a rusted suit of armour, his best friend flatly stared back. “There is nothing to discuss. You’re getting married to Mary. I’ve given you my blessing. Enough said.”
“Sherlock…”
Flatly, Sherlock continued, “Let it drop.” His teeth gritted and he was close to dropping another eyeball in teacup. John rescued the tea just before the freshly scorched eyeball slipped from Sherlock’s tongs. “Thanks.”
“So can we talk?” John asked, drumming his fingers against Sherlock’s tea, which he had let get cold again (Mrs Hudson would give him hell), “I want to talk.
“I again see no need.”
---
Sherlock’s damnable test tubes had been broken along the way. Good riddance to them. Stag Night by its very definition was pissing into wardrobes and wasn’t a success unless somebody had sex and somebody got arrested. Of course given that they were the only two in their party, the chances of those two happening were remote. One could possibly happen, but only if they got a prostitute and he didn’t think Sherlock could get drunk enough to be convinced into that.
Just for once, he wanted to make Sherlock not so Sherlock-y if that was even a word. He wasn’t sure. John lost track of words when he coaxed Sherlock into shots several rounds back. “It’s okay, I’m paying, Sherlock.”
Sherlock accepted the shot with his long thin fingers and a brief slurred, “Tanks James.”
“Not my name.” John chuckled, “Who do I look like to you? Greg?”
The expression on Sherlock’s face was so over the top, John wished he remembered how his phone worked. Sherlock sucked in his lower lip and squinted his eyes. “No, John. You look like a hedgehog.”
At the moment the laws of the universe decided John would take an ill timed sip of his drink, laugh, and snort said drink out his nose. The laws of the universe caused Sherlock to find this incredibly funny and collapse on their table in a peel of giggles. “Right out your nose.”
“Shut up Locks, it stings,” John said still sniffling. “A little bit of pity would be nice. Mary would…”
Sherlock’s hand shoved its way against his face and held itself there. “Hush your hedgehoggy face, John-james or whatever you’re calling yourself this adventure. This is Stag Night, let’s go to the bathroom and you can snort some water and that will ease the sting.”
If John had been sober, that plan would make no sense, but a few minutes later, Sherlock was helpfully holding his head under the water as he tried to unsuccessfully manoeuvre his nostrils under the weak stream. “Move my head, I’m too pissed.”
He thought he heard Sherlock say something about “Could you not mention pee.” but that might just have been him. Sherlock was definitely making faint mewling noise and stamping one of his feet. “John,” he said, gulping in the back of his throat, “John I have to piss.”
John carefully tried to extract his head from under the tap without his head. He failed. “Okay,” he said. “How does that affect… effect… afflictable-wickfuckme…I forget which word you use… something me?”
Sherlock gave a watery smile. “I forgot trousers.”
---
Fuck him sidewise, he helped Sherlock Holmes take a piss. Wrangled him into the handicapped stall because of his awkward it was, unzipped him, aimed his penis towards the bowl because he could picture Sherlock forgetting aiming as well. It wasn’t like Sherlock ever got drunk before. He drank yes, got drunk no.
“Again, thanks,” Sherlock said, and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world from the man whose dick was hanging out of trousers and pants. John felt left out so he eased out his own member to flop against his jeans. Sherlock automatically peered down. “That explains why you walk like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like a man with a big cock… kinda jealous… mmmph,” Sherlock’s snide drunk remark was cut off by John’s tongue probing his mouth.
John pulled away. “Do us both a favour and shut up.”
Sherlock nodded, curls bobbing round his face. Discipline apparently aroused him. John reached around and smacked Sherlock’s bum. From the way his dick bobbed eager there’s was validation to that theory. He leaned forward and claimed Sherlock’s mouth again as he slid Sherlock’s trousers and pants around his knees.
Sherlock’s mouth tasted like beer, whisky, honey, and cigarettes. If he were sober, John would have yelled at him for being drunk. Were was the key here. If he were sober, they wouldn’t be rutting in the handicap stall. But he was sober when he slipped Sherlock an extra shot. Stupid uptight Sherlock with his stupid fluffy hair, cheeky cheeks (both sets), his damned way of closing his eyes when he was listening, and the way he climbed over everything and everyone to get his way.
He wished he had lube. He wished he could claim Sherlock in the stall, let everybody know Sherlock was his. He could bring Sherlock home to Mary he mused. Mary loved Sherlock. They could have so much fun with him. Claim him, keep him safe from the world.
Sherlock’s arse was cream white and one of the few places on his body that wasn’t covered in scars. The only mark on him was the handprint John left on him. If John had lube, he would take him here. “Can I?” he asked. Sherlock’s eyes were closed. “Between your thighs. Mary always said I needed to explore my sexuality more.”
“I…”
John took that as yes. “I’m going to make this easy on you sexy.” He kissed the back of Sherlock’s neck and gently racked his hand through Sherlock’s curls.
Sherlock screamed. The sound that came out of Sherlock’s throat was far from the deep tones the normal made their way out of his mouth. It was high, reedy, and pitchy. His fist found John’s stomach and punched it hard. John fell to his knees, retching. There were strands of Sherlock’s curls in his hand where he had inadvertently yanked them out. “I want to go home. Please, John, take me back home.” Sherlock looked at him, piteously as he fumbled his clothes back together into some sense of order.
Somehow they found their way home. And yet with all of those adventures only two hours had passed. Two… John felt like they had spent a small eternity in the bar. Pulling Sherlock away from a man over an ash argument. Staring into eyes he was sure were blue but looked green in the light of beer goggles and Sherlock’s shirt. Spooning on the stairs… all of that two hours.
---
Hoping Sherlock didn’t remember.
----
Fuck his life, of course he did.
---
“If you’re not going to discuss this with me,” John began, “At least with a doctor.”
Sherlock inhaled and exhaled slowly. “You are a doctor. And I’ve chosen not to discuss with you.”
John bit his lip. “Damnit Sherlock, don’t go through this with me. Not this. Not now. Promise me.”
The look on Sherlock’s face was very much deer in headlights. “Why? Because you deduced that I was raped? Because you think that it’s all connected to Serbia and if I talk about that it will be magically cured.”
“No… I.”
Flatly, Sherlock continued. “It’s not that simple.” He gestured to the nearby barchair. “Sit.”
John pulled up the nearest chair.
In the flat tones of someone far too used to never being believed, Sherlock began. “It was back when I was 18 and the day before I was due to go to my degree ceremony for my Doctorate in Chemistry.” Minor bit of pride in the flat tone combined with a slight voice hitch. “I suppose it was because I was too arrogant. I kept to my rooms back then. Why shouldn't I? After all, I had no friends.
“I think arrogance was my downfall. It has been so many times. I was stupid then. So very stupid and slow-witted was I back then. So I’ve made it my mission to become clever as possible. And I’m 30 now so you can imagine that I can become even more clever yet.” John didn’t bother correct him on his slip in grammar. “I left my rooms for a pub-crawl with my friends... no... colleagues." He grimaced briefly. "And some time along I become separated. I was underage yes so they insisted on buying my drinks why I was away from the bar. Three pubs along, I think maybe they finally got sick of me. So they decided it so would be fun to dose the little freak with an emetic. It hit quite fast and painful. I was quite sick into some bushes.
“That’s when Sebastian came along.”
“Son of a bitch.”
Sherlock smiled wanly. “I trust I don’t need to go on.”
“He did…”
“And you solved a case for…”
“I did…”
“But how could… why did you… and I corrected you and called myself your colleague when I should have punched his teeth in.”
“Because his parents are richer than mine. And he let me know it.” Sherlock gritted his teeth. “Let me know that it would be buried under the rug.” The flat tone was gone. “But you don’t forget that. So I deleted sex. Because clearly nobody told me how unpleasant it would be.”
“Rape is not sex, Sherlock.”
Sherlock blinked.
“Don’t call it sex. It’s an attack. Call it what it is. You didn’t have sex. You were attacked. Now please for my sake, talk to somebody.”
Sherlock bit his lip hard enough to bleed. “I think I would like you to leave now.”
“Why?”
“You know why.” Sherlock smiled darkly. “Because you have Mary. Mary looks out for you.”
John put his coat on when Sherlock continued to wave him away with an eyeball. “It seems unfair. I get a wife, the police continue to get the credit, so what the fuck do you get out of this Sherlock?”
“I’ll think of something.”
---
Sherlock watched John walk down Baker Street and faintly touched his lips with his long white hand. As for him, there remained the cocaine bottle.