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swissmargTitle: Under the Influence
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
swissmarg
Rating: Explicit
Fandom and Pairing: Sherlock (BBC), John/Sherlock
Word count: 5565
Warnings: Dub-con (sex under the influence of mind-altering substances)
Spoilers:(Only not really...)
Summary: It only worked on nights when there was a full moon.
Notes: Written for the flash-porn challenge at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
come_at_once, using the prompt 'Till morning do us part" by holyfant. Not beta read. Somehow this didn't end up being anywhere near as smutty as I'd planned it. The story always gets in my way. Enjoy anyway?
It only worked on nights when there was a full moon. Except that time when it had been two days past full, and that other time when it had really already been a waning crescent. All right, honestly, Sherlock wasn't quite sure what the phases of the moon had to do with it, but that's what experiments were for. Because it definitely didn't work all the time.
Alcohol was clearly part of the equation, however. In fact, Sherlock thought it likely that the times it hadn't worked, John simply hadn't had enough alcohol intus. He'd considered including alcohol in the formula and dosing John when he was sober - which would certainly be much more scientifically accurate - but John was frustratingly alert to any attempts on Sherlock's part to slip him things, and there was no way he'd miss the taste of alcohol in his tea, water, sports drink, what-have-you.
So Sherlock was stuck with pretending to be the caring flatmate, making sure that John drank a full glass of water before going to bed whenever he came home after going out for a couple of rounds with Mike, or Lestrade, or that annoying medical student volunteering at the clinic where he was temping while some other annoying doctor was on maternity leave, or - Sherlock gritted his teeth, but he couldn't complain because the more often John went out drinking, the more data Sherlock could gather for his experiment - one of those vapid women John would still insist on chatting up.
At least he no longer spent entire nights away from the flat - and judging by the evidence (or lack thereof), he was also not having sexual liaisons of any kind. Not even kissing, beyond a peck on the cheek or two. Which Sherlock knew he shouldn't be pleased about - it wasn't as if he were actually happy when John was frustrated and disappointed - but there it was. He was pleased about it.
Anyway, back to the experiment. So far, John didn't seem to suspect anything. He'd been surprised the first couple of times - granted, he probably didn't even remember the first couple of times, he'd been so far gone - but it had almost become something of a ritual now. When John stumbled unsteadily into the flat, murmured a greeting and headed directly for the loo, Sherlock would calmly remove the glass vial from his pocket - having secreted it there earlier when he deduced John would be out imbibing - take a glass from the drainboard and put three careful drops into the bottom. Then he would put the glass back on the counter and wait until John emerged.
As soon as he did - generally making a beeline for his chair in the living room, as well trained as one of Pavlov's dogs - Sherlock would get up as if for the first time, pick up the glass, and fill it with water from the tap in the kitchen. If John cared to pay attention at all, all he would see was fresh water going in. The glass vial was securely stowed in Sherlock's pocket by now. Then Sherlock would bring John the water, admonish him about dehydration and hangovers, and John would obediently drink it.
It was that easy.
It had started out with a case, as these things tended to. The victims had all been given something that mimicked a benzodiazepine, yet failed to show up as such in their blood or urine. Sherlock took up the challenge to try and recreate the unknown drug. As it was impractical to observe the effects on himself, he needed a guinea pig, and that was obviously going to be John. He tested everything on himself first, of course, to make sure it was safe - he wasn't about to poison the man. But due to his history with mind-altering substances, he was frustratingly resistant to his chemically engineered molecules.
He had to play around with the dosage a bit to find the optimum level that would make John pliant and agreeable, yet not entirely unresponsive. The first time, at a dose that made Sherlock woozy, John simply fell into a rock-hard sleep. The evidence on the victims' bodies showed that they'd been awake and reactive, however, so that was no good. A lower dose had no palpable effect on Sherlock, but seemed to put John into just that easygoing, lazy state the perpetrator would have found irresistible.
With his blue eyes crinkling at the edges, his head lolling against the back of his chair, his mouth just barely curling into a smile that seemed to be designed specifically to make Sherlock's heart thud against his ribcage, and his legs sprawled lazily with his jeans bunched up just so at the apex, John was the perfect picture of a willing, welcoming subject. Not a victim. John was never a victim. Even subject as he was to Sherlock's whims and manipulations, he maintained his own power, one that Sherlock would never entirely be able to override or control.
It wasn't just the immediate effect that was important, however; it was the later, amnesiac qualities that were particularly valuable, as they were what had, up to now, prevented the perpetrator from ever being positively identified. And so, once John was comfortably relaxed in his chair, his eyes blinking lazily without letting Sherlock out of his sight for a moment, Sherlock would start talking - maybe his thoughts on the outrage that called itself modern classical music, or a lengthy complaint about the roadworks that had popped up between Baker Street and Scotland Yard, and how it was a cheap ploy on Mycroft's part to interfere with his work. He made sure John was listening by posing questions here and there, to which John replied more or less on target. And then he'd send John up to bed and waited impatiently until morning to see if it had worked.
However, when Sherlock would quiz him the following morning, John was unhapppily vague in his responses, saying things like 'You know I don't have an ear for music,' or 'Sherlock, I have to get to work,' or 'Why the hell are you storing frogspawn in the toilet?'
Sherlock couldn't tell whether John was simply not interested in parroting back his monologues from the previous night, or whether he didn't recall a word. And he couldn't very well sit John down and explain this was for an Important Experiment, because then there would be uncomfortable questions about said experiment and terms like Informed Consent would be bandied about and there would be shouting.
So he had to come up with a different approach. He would have to tell John something that he absolutely, positively would not forget, if his mind were unclouded and unimpeded. Something that he would be guaranteed to remark on the next day, if he remembered it. Something that didn't require immediate action, but that would be alarming enough to make a lasting impression.
Sherlock had no idea why he ended up saying what he did. He should have used something else, like, 'John, I have cancer,' or 'Mrs Hudson's asked us to leave.' He deemed those perhaps a bit too upsetting and likely to involve lengthy followups and discussions, so in the end, he'd settled on, 'Lestrade texted to say he thinks they've caught the idiot who shot at you last month'. Lestrade hadn't, of course, and it was not an event Sherlock recalled with any fondness, so maybe it was that jolt of recalling the fear and panic he'd felt that sent his brain tumbling down such a sentimental path. At any rate, what actually came out was, 'I'm really quite hopelessly in love with you, John Watson,' and to add insult to injury, he found himself leaning down close to the very stunned face of said John Watson, and kissing him carefully on the mouth.
And then he'd exited sedately to his room. Left at a measured and controlled pace. All right, run away in a panic.
It wasn't as if John were going to remember it. Sherlock had got the formula right. Of course he had. He noted, in passing, that it was a full moon.
He waited in his room until he heard John lumbering slowly up the stairs what must have been a couple of hours later - had he just sat there in his chair, gaping the entire time? Fallen asleep? - before emerging himself and carefully cleaned up any evidence of what had transpired. He washed and put away the water glass and fluffed up the pillow on John's chair - just remembering John sitting there staring up at him, the look on his face in the split second between the end of Sherlock's sentence and the kiss, made Sherlock's stomach twist in a deliciously uncomfortable way. For good measure, he tidied the sitting room a bit, not wanting to trigger John's memory in any way should his eye light on a magazine or stray teacup that he may have happened to be looking at when Sherlock said what he said - God, why had he said that of all things! Although, granted, it was hardly going to be the kind of thing John would forget, so as experimental measures went, it was excellent.
And then he sat down at his microscope and waited. It was after nine - John had a day off - and Sherlock had a crick in his neck by the time John finally trundled heavily down the stairs, the water apparently not having prevented all the aftereffects of the alcohol.
Sherlock braced himself.
John walked into the kitchen, wearing his dressing gown, a bundle of clean clothes under his arm. He murmured a 'good morning', his voice still thick with sleep and disappeared into the bathroom.
All right. That was a good start. Early days yet, though, early days. Maybe he wanted to be fresh and alert before broaching what was certain to be a sticky subject.
Sherlock busied himself with making tea and - as he actually was a bit peckish and needed something to do with his hands - toast and scrambled eggs while the shower ran.
Twenty minutes later, John came out, shaved and dressed, looked pleasantly surprised at the cuppa and plate of food on the table, sat down, and dug in.
Nothing. Sherlock relaxed fractionally. John mentioned needing milk. He was neither avoiding Sherlock's eyes nor seeking them out. Sherlock relaxed a bit more. When he was finished, John thanked Sherlock for the breakfast and began clearing his dishes, taking Sherlock's at the same time. His arm brushed Sherlock's as he reached across to take his cup. No reaction. No flinch, no checking to see if it was welcome, nothing.
Sherlock decided to press the issue.
"I'm er... sorry about last night," he offered, trying to sound hesitant and standoffish, as he imagined he'd sound if he really had meant what he said and were actually sorry for having taken liberties. It wasn't a huge stretch.
John frowned, pausing halfway to the sink. "What, the- Oh," he said, his features clearing. "Yeah, I must have fallen asleep on the chair. Don't worry about it, my own fault. One too many, I'm afraid." He smiled ruefully and dropped the dishes into the sink with a clatter. "I'll get that later," he said, walking away. "Or you could..." he added meaningfully but without any real weight behind it. And then he took his jacket off the hook and disappeared down the stairs, calling back something about his sister or the bank or something equally dull.
Sherlock appeared to have got away with it. Oddly, he wasn't entirely relieved.
As any scientist worth their salt knows, however, the results needed to be replicable. And so Sherlock tried again that night. The next morning, however, John nagged Sherlock into getting dressed and had him halfway out the door before Sherlock realised what was going on.
He rolled his eyes as if he'd just remembered. "Oh! Lestrade texted back earlier. Not the same man."
John's shoulders slumped. "They sure?"
"The toenails proved it," Sherlock said, aiming for regretful.
"Damn," John said bitterly.
But then Sherlock wasn't sure if it was the phase of the moon or the lack of alcohol that had caused the failure, so further experiments were in order.
This went on for a week or two, with sporadic success and Sherlock growing increasingly frustrated - and running out of spurious information to feed John - when the sound of John's feet once again clumping up the stairs had Sherlock reaching for the little glass vial in his pocket. It had been someone's engagement party - one of the minor badges from NSY, Sherlock had been invited as well but honestly, who were they kidding. John paused in the doorway, cheeks and nose showing the three beers and four (really, John?) shots, and if Sherlock didn't know better, he'd have said that was a rather soppy look being aimed in his direction, but it was obviously just the alcohol. John's face broke into a somewhat sheepish smile that he seemed to be having some trouble hiding, but he just sighed, hung his jacket on the hook by the door, and headed for the bathroom.
Sherlock prepared the glass, and when John came out again - somewhat more in control of his features, having splashed liberal amounts of cold water on his face - he collapsed easily into his chair and accepted the doctored drink from Sherlock.
"Cheers," he said, taking a sip. He rested the glass on the arm of the chair and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. The collar of his shirt was askew, one point inside his jumper and the other one outside. Sherlock's fingers twitched with the need to fix it.
Sherlock cast about for what he was going to test John with this time. He didn't have anything in mind yet. He had to wait until John had finished the drink anyway, and then wait again until he started showing the effects.
In the meantime, he picked up his violin and fiddled with it, tuning it and plucking it until he felt settled enough to try an actual melody. He wasn't sure what he started with, but he ended up playing a piece that John had mentioned liking the last time he played it. It was slow and plaintive, not quite sad but perhaps a bit melancholy. Perhaps a bit the way he felt when John was out and he was here, alone, with his unwelcome thoughts and impossible dreams and all the awkwardness of being pimply and seventeen and knowing what he wanted but also knowing he could never have it.
He didn't even notice John had got up and was standing next to him until he finished and opened his eyes. He hadn't realised he'd closed them.
"That was nice," John said. He was standing very close to Sherlock. His words were a bit sloppy, and his eyes were a bit glassy. His mouth, his chin, the way his fringe fell just so over his forehead: those were all John and made something jump inside Sherlock's chest.
Sherlock glanced at John's chair. The glass was empty on the floor next to it. Sherlock hadn't thought up tonight's test yet. Then John, brilliant John, thought it up for him.
"Come on," he said, putting his hand over Sherlock's on the violin. "Put that away." His voice was warm and smooth and rumbly all at the same time.
Sherlock put the violin away. John didn't let go of his hand. He may in fact have been holding on more firmly than was either necessary or conducive to efficient movement.
John kept holding Sherlock's hand all the way up to his bedroom. He let go long enough to help Sherlock out of his dressing gown and t-shirt and pyjama trousers. Sherlock stood there and watched in the half-light coming in through the window while John took off his own clothes. He had to steady John by the shoulder when he took off his trousers and pants, reminding him it would be helpful to take the shoes off first. John laughed in a muffled sort of way and did that, and then they were both naked. John got onto his bed. He didn't pull Sherlock with him or say anything, but Sherlock could take a hint.
Once they were both under the covers, John kissed him. It was much better and much worse than Sherlock had ever imagined it might be. Better because they were together in John's bed and John was warm and naked and his mouth was sweet and earthy and his hands were on Sherlock's skin. Worse because John was drunk and under the influence of a benzodiazepine derivative and didn't actually want him here at all.
Sherlock kissed him back like there wasn't going to be a tomorrow.
John didn't say anything the entire time. Not when Sherlock rubbed and pinched his nipples to pin-sharp points. Not when Sherlock reached between them and weighed his testicles in his hand, rolling them between his fingers. Not even when he licked his hand and wrapped it around John's cock. Of course, the fact that Sherlock didn't remove his mouth from John's the entire time might have been a factor. It wasn't until the end, when John jerked and gasped and let loose with a string of 'Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck's and ejaculated hot and thick into the crease of Sherlock's thigh that the silence was broken.
Sherlock waited until John's breathing evened out and then he slid out from under him, gathered his clothes, and went back downstairs.
The next morning, Sherlock left the flat before John got up. He couldn't face either John remembering or John not remembering. It had not, he recalled, been a full moon last night, for whatever that was worth. He had to come back eventually, of course, but only after fortifying himself with a day of visiting his contacts and smoking half a pack of cigarettes.
When he finally returned late that night, he saw from outside that the lights in the flat were on. John was home. He steeled himself.
John Watson was not stupid. He knew Sherlock was putting something in that water. He hadn't cottoned on at first - naively thinking that his flatmate was merely being solicitous - but after the third time he was presented with a full-to-the-brim glass of water when he came home after stopping by the pub, he had his suspicions. The fact that Sherlock would stand there and stare at him until he'd downed the entire thing was another giant, flashing clue.
But, odd as it might sound, he trusted the man not to subject him to anything too horrible - and he was morbidly curious, as well as being prepared this time for hallucinations of mad dogs with glowing eyes. But, to his disappointment, he never noticed any effects. Of course, that didn't mean there weren't any. His liver might be liquefying, or Sherlock could be building up an immunity to arsenic in him, or he might be sleepwalking naked on the rooftoops. But he woke up every morning with nothing worse than a mild hangover, which was fully attributable to the drinks from the previous night. Maybe, he thought optimistically, Sherlock was trying out some new hangover cure. If so, however, he really should be asking more pointed questions the next day.
He would have liked to take a sample of the water to Molly and have her run some tests on it, but he could never figure how to keep back enough to be useful, with Sherlock hanging over him until he finished and whisking the glass away to wash the moment he was. He did the next best thing and had every conceivable test done on his blood the next day, but of course they couldn't find anything.
So he let Sherlock continue. And the thing was, he really enjoyed those evenings. He'd sit there with his mild buzz from his pint or two and Sherlock would talk about things, flapping around in his dressing gown, pacing and gesturing.
To tell the truth, John didn't normally drink that much. Once, maybe twice a week, tops. But as soon as he realised what Sherlock's M.O. was, he found excuses to go to the pub three, four, even five times a week just so he could come home afterwards and spend the evening with Sherlock. His friends must have thought he was turning into a lush. He even resorted to chatting up random women when he couldn't find anyone he knew who was willing to go a round with him. He wasn't quite pathetic enough to go drinking entirely alone.
Once home and ensconced in his chair with his obligatory glass of possibly poisoned water drunk, John would nod and smile and answer yes or no and just generally enjoy being the target of Sherlock's flow of speech. And the cheekbones. He definitely enjoyed the cheekbones. And the mouth. And the curve of his pyjama-clad arse and the fleeing glimpses - when he allowed himself - of the tantalising lumps in the front whose contours were sometimes revealed when Sherlock took a particularly vigorous step.
The confession, though, that had come as a bit of a shock. The kiss even more so. One minute he'd been sitting there, having dutifully drunk his medicine, ready to settle in for another evening in front of the Sherlock channel, when Sherlock had blurted out that most shocking of admissions, leaned down, kissed him, and hightailed it out of the room.
Huh. John had sat there for a good long while, trying to figure out whether Sherlock was serious or whether it was all part of the water experiment. Although the one didn't necessarily exclude the other. Or maybe it was something else altogether. The thing was, where Sherlock Holmes was concerned, John had learned early on that it was better to play your emotions close to your chest. Sherlock didn't do emotional - or physical - entanglements. It wasn't just that whole 'not my area' conversation they'd had that first night, either. It was his entire essence, the way he lived, the way he interacted with people. And so John couldn't help but feel it was maybe all a bit too much wishful thinking on his part. He'd gone to bed resolved only to say something if Sherlock did, and otherwise to go on as if nothing had happened.
Breakfast was another surprise, and much easier to deal with, in that he simply ate it. The apology had almost thrown him, but John decided to play dumb, and as Sherlock didn't correct him, he figured he'd passed whatever test it was. And that was that.
They went back to the offerings of water and the rambling monologues, but something was different. John could tell. Sherlock was rushed and nervous - more so than usual - and he seemed frustrated by something, the way he got when a case was dragging on longer than it should and he still hadn't seen the solution. John was frustrated too, but he knew asking Sherlock directly would only cause him to retreat further.
It didn't help things that John couldn't stop thinking about that kiss. It had been dry and quick, but there had been a gentleness and longing there that made John think Sherlock really had meant it. He could still feel the stubble on Sherlock's chin prickling against his skin, still smell the faintly pungent scent of unwashed Sherlock that had wafted up out of his t-shirt, and still see the fleeting look of panic that had crossed Sherlock's face when he stood up again, before whirling around and beating his hasty retreat.
It got to the point where John was fairly miserable over the whole situation, and when Sergeant Pennington's engagement do went down, he may have ended up having a couple of shots too many and saying more to Greg than he'd actually intended to.
"I'm bloody thirty-eight years old and pining after a sociopath," he'd said, glaring morosely into his last - absolutely last - pint.
"You know that's all a bunch of bollocks, right?" Greg said.
"Yeah, but he doesn't," John said, taking another sip.
"Yeah, I get you." Greg clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"He actually kissed me the other ... night? Last week? Month?" John couldn't remember. It seemed so long ago, like it was yesterday. He belched, a bit. His stomach was getting kind of full. He didn't mention the whole 'I'm in love with you' part because that was too naff even for drunken engagement party confessions.
Greg's hand slid off his shoulder and he leaned his elbow on the table to get a better look at John. His eyes were wide. "What'd you do?"
"Nothing." John shrugged. "He ran off right after."
"And afterwards?" Greg had that kind of incredulous look on his face like when he couldn't quite follow one of Sherlock's theories.
"Nothing," John said again. "He didn't mention it, so I didn't either."
"John, this is Sherlock. Do you really think he's going to want to talk about it? For him to take the first step like that, that's pretty much like champagne and roses from anyone else. He was probably waiting to see what you did, and now he thinks you're not interested."
John's heart sank. "Oh God." Greg was right. Had to be. That's what all the tension was about.
"Unless you're not interested," Greg added.
John shook his head, his appetite for his drink gone. "No, I'm... I fucked up, didn't I?"
"I don't think it's too late to fix it."
So that's what John tried to do. When he got home, he splashed some cold water on his face and tried to sober up, drank his water, and listened to Sherlock serenade him with the most heart-wrenching look on his face. And then he took him to bed.
When he woke up the next morning, however, alone in bed with a screaming headache - apparently whatever Sherlock was putting in that water, it was not entirely effective at preventing hangovers - and Sherlock entirely absent from the flat, he began to think he might not have done such a bang-up job of fixing things after all.
John heard Sherlock coming up the stairs. He got up and went to the kitchen. Sherlock stopped outside the door. John froze where he was too. Sherlock had to come in, though, unless he meant to avoid John forever. Which ... No. He wasn't going to do that. He was going to pretend nothing had happened, like the first time. John was on to him now.
Sure enough, after another few seconds that seemed to stretch on forever, the door opened briskly and Sherlock came in, unwinding his scarf.
John turned on the water and filled the glass. When Sherlock heard the sound of the water running, he came around the corner and looked into the kitchen. John met his eyes and turned off the water. He walked over to Sherlock and held out the glass.
Sherlock's eyes flickered down to the glass and back at John. John put more determination into his expression and nudged the glass at Sherlock. Sherlock took the glass and drank everything, never taking his eyes off John. When he was done, there was a line of moisture on his upper lip. John's fingers itched with the need to wipe it away. John took the glass away from him and set it on the table. His heart was beating so hard he was sure Sherlock could see it right through his shirt.
It took him several more deep breaths to get the words out. "I'm really quite hopelessly in love with you, Sherlock Holmes." Then he took a step forward so they were toe to toe, reached up to put his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, and pulled him down for a kiss. It was dry, and brief, and so full of longing and affection that John was frankly surprised his lips didn't spontaneously combust. He tasted the cigarettes on Sherlock's breath but let it slide. He probably hadn't tasted a treat topped up with beer and whisky the other night either.
Then he took a step back again and stood there stoically, trying not to look too desperate or pathetic. His fists clenched and unclenched but he held Sherlock's gaze with a steadiness he didn't quite feel.
Sherlock's brain must have either gone offline or into overdrive, as he just stood there for several long, long seconds. John could actually see the flush rising on his cheeks. Overdrive it was then.
Finally, Sherlock dropped his eyes. His mouth opened and he inhaled, quick and shallow, before reaching out to grasp John's fingers.
"Come on," he said, his voice catching on the words.
Then he walked toward his bedroom, pulling John after him.
Once in the bedroom, John closed the door behind them, and Sherlock dropped his hand. They both stood there in the dark, breathing.
Sherlock was the first to move. Rather than starting to undress John, though, he moved in close enough that their chests were brushing, put his hands on John's shoulders and let them slowly slide down his arms. John put his hands on Sherlock's hips and snugged him in more tightly. Sherlock brushed his nose, then his lips over John's cheek. John turned his face just enough to catch Sherlock's mouth, and then he kissed him as if there weren't going to be any tomorrow.
Sherlock didn't say anything when John unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt with blind fingers and slid it off his shoulders. He didn't say anything when John's hands found their way to his flies and opened them (although he may have had to stifle an unbecoming moan when John inadvertently brushed his cock through his pants). They worked together to get Sherlock's trousers and pants off, John peppering Sherlock's stomach and chest with kisses when he bent over, and again on the way back up. John started to take off his own clothes, but Sherlock had had enough of the parallel play and anyway he was getting impatient, so he knelt down and dealt with John's jeans and underwear while John did the same with his shirt.
While he was down there, Sherlock took the opportunity to thoroughly acquaint himself with John's cock. It was just a pity there wasn't more light. Still, the lack of visual input only served to heighten the sensitivity of his other senses, and he felt confident, after exploring the smooth, bulbous head, thick, left-leaning shaft, and tight, heavy bollocks with his tongue, lips, and hands that he'd be able to pick them out of any line-up. When a tangy, bitter fluid began to well out of the slit, Sherlock committed that taste to memory as well.
John was rocking his hips back and forth by now, both hands on Sherlock's head, half cradling and half guiding. He was puffing like a steam engine and starting to make sounds that came from somewhere deep in his chest. Maybe even from his heart. Things were dangerously close to ending the way they had the last time, though, and damnit, the whole point tonight was to show Sherlock that John reciprocated his feelings, every last one, not to get his rocks off and then have Sherlock slink off, used and unsatisfied.
So, as difficult as it was, John took a step back and let go of Sherlock's head.
"John?" Sherlock said, and in that one word, John could hear all the uncertainty and potential to be hurt.
So, "Come here," he answered, low and firm, and got onto Sherlock's bed. This man and his heart were his responsibility, and he was going to make sure he was as safe and secure as John could make him. As safe and secure as he made John.
Sherlock followed. "John," he said as he settled himself in next to John, "what exactly did you put in the water?"
John paused, holding the cover up. "There wasn't anything in the water. Other than your usual heavy metals and other unsavouries." He dropped the cover down over both of them. "Do I want to know what you put in my water?"
Sherlock hesitated a long time, but finally said, "No."
That was fine with John. Truly. Only... "Was your experiment successful, at least?"
Another long pause. Then: "No experiment can ever really be a failure, even if it doesn't deliver the expected results."
"So, not what you expected?" John smiled through his words and put his hands right where Sherlock wanted them, which was on his body.
"No, but welcome all the same." Sherlock put his hands on John, too, and touched him in all the places he had the last time and more besides.
Afterwards, with John breathing quietly beside him (it turned out he dropped off immediately after sex regardless of the amount of alcohol in his body), Sherlock caught a glimpse of the moon out his window. It was the barest waning crescent.
Author:
swissmargRating: Explicit
Fandom and Pairing: Sherlock (BBC), John/Sherlock
Word count: 5565
Warnings: Dub-con (sex under the influence of mind-altering substances)
Spoilers:(Only not really...)
Summary: It only worked on nights when there was a full moon.
Notes: Written for the flash-porn challenge at
come_at_once, using the prompt 'Till morning do us part" by holyfant. Not beta read. Somehow this didn't end up being anywhere near as smutty as I'd planned it. The story always gets in my way. Enjoy anyway?Under the Influence
It only worked on nights when there was a full moon. Except that time when it had been two days past full, and that other time when it had really already been a waning crescent. All right, honestly, Sherlock wasn't quite sure what the phases of the moon had to do with it, but that's what experiments were for. Because it definitely didn't work all the time.
Alcohol was clearly part of the equation, however. In fact, Sherlock thought it likely that the times it hadn't worked, John simply hadn't had enough alcohol intus. He'd considered including alcohol in the formula and dosing John when he was sober - which would certainly be much more scientifically accurate - but John was frustratingly alert to any attempts on Sherlock's part to slip him things, and there was no way he'd miss the taste of alcohol in his tea, water, sports drink, what-have-you.
So Sherlock was stuck with pretending to be the caring flatmate, making sure that John drank a full glass of water before going to bed whenever he came home after going out for a couple of rounds with Mike, or Lestrade, or that annoying medical student volunteering at the clinic where he was temping while some other annoying doctor was on maternity leave, or - Sherlock gritted his teeth, but he couldn't complain because the more often John went out drinking, the more data Sherlock could gather for his experiment - one of those vapid women John would still insist on chatting up.
At least he no longer spent entire nights away from the flat - and judging by the evidence (or lack thereof), he was also not having sexual liaisons of any kind. Not even kissing, beyond a peck on the cheek or two. Which Sherlock knew he shouldn't be pleased about - it wasn't as if he were actually happy when John was frustrated and disappointed - but there it was. He was pleased about it.
Anyway, back to the experiment. So far, John didn't seem to suspect anything. He'd been surprised the first couple of times - granted, he probably didn't even remember the first couple of times, he'd been so far gone - but it had almost become something of a ritual now. When John stumbled unsteadily into the flat, murmured a greeting and headed directly for the loo, Sherlock would calmly remove the glass vial from his pocket - having secreted it there earlier when he deduced John would be out imbibing - take a glass from the drainboard and put three careful drops into the bottom. Then he would put the glass back on the counter and wait until John emerged.
As soon as he did - generally making a beeline for his chair in the living room, as well trained as one of Pavlov's dogs - Sherlock would get up as if for the first time, pick up the glass, and fill it with water from the tap in the kitchen. If John cared to pay attention at all, all he would see was fresh water going in. The glass vial was securely stowed in Sherlock's pocket by now. Then Sherlock would bring John the water, admonish him about dehydration and hangovers, and John would obediently drink it.
It was that easy.
It had started out with a case, as these things tended to. The victims had all been given something that mimicked a benzodiazepine, yet failed to show up as such in their blood or urine. Sherlock took up the challenge to try and recreate the unknown drug. As it was impractical to observe the effects on himself, he needed a guinea pig, and that was obviously going to be John. He tested everything on himself first, of course, to make sure it was safe - he wasn't about to poison the man. But due to his history with mind-altering substances, he was frustratingly resistant to his chemically engineered molecules.
He had to play around with the dosage a bit to find the optimum level that would make John pliant and agreeable, yet not entirely unresponsive. The first time, at a dose that made Sherlock woozy, John simply fell into a rock-hard sleep. The evidence on the victims' bodies showed that they'd been awake and reactive, however, so that was no good. A lower dose had no palpable effect on Sherlock, but seemed to put John into just that easygoing, lazy state the perpetrator would have found irresistible.
With his blue eyes crinkling at the edges, his head lolling against the back of his chair, his mouth just barely curling into a smile that seemed to be designed specifically to make Sherlock's heart thud against his ribcage, and his legs sprawled lazily with his jeans bunched up just so at the apex, John was the perfect picture of a willing, welcoming subject. Not a victim. John was never a victim. Even subject as he was to Sherlock's whims and manipulations, he maintained his own power, one that Sherlock would never entirely be able to override or control.
It wasn't just the immediate effect that was important, however; it was the later, amnesiac qualities that were particularly valuable, as they were what had, up to now, prevented the perpetrator from ever being positively identified. And so, once John was comfortably relaxed in his chair, his eyes blinking lazily without letting Sherlock out of his sight for a moment, Sherlock would start talking - maybe his thoughts on the outrage that called itself modern classical music, or a lengthy complaint about the roadworks that had popped up between Baker Street and Scotland Yard, and how it was a cheap ploy on Mycroft's part to interfere with his work. He made sure John was listening by posing questions here and there, to which John replied more or less on target. And then he'd send John up to bed and waited impatiently until morning to see if it had worked.
However, when Sherlock would quiz him the following morning, John was unhapppily vague in his responses, saying things like 'You know I don't have an ear for music,' or 'Sherlock, I have to get to work,' or 'Why the hell are you storing frogspawn in the toilet?'
Sherlock couldn't tell whether John was simply not interested in parroting back his monologues from the previous night, or whether he didn't recall a word. And he couldn't very well sit John down and explain this was for an Important Experiment, because then there would be uncomfortable questions about said experiment and terms like Informed Consent would be bandied about and there would be shouting.
So he had to come up with a different approach. He would have to tell John something that he absolutely, positively would not forget, if his mind were unclouded and unimpeded. Something that he would be guaranteed to remark on the next day, if he remembered it. Something that didn't require immediate action, but that would be alarming enough to make a lasting impression.
Sherlock had no idea why he ended up saying what he did. He should have used something else, like, 'John, I have cancer,' or 'Mrs Hudson's asked us to leave.' He deemed those perhaps a bit too upsetting and likely to involve lengthy followups and discussions, so in the end, he'd settled on, 'Lestrade texted to say he thinks they've caught the idiot who shot at you last month'. Lestrade hadn't, of course, and it was not an event Sherlock recalled with any fondness, so maybe it was that jolt of recalling the fear and panic he'd felt that sent his brain tumbling down such a sentimental path. At any rate, what actually came out was, 'I'm really quite hopelessly in love with you, John Watson,' and to add insult to injury, he found himself leaning down close to the very stunned face of said John Watson, and kissing him carefully on the mouth.
And then he'd exited sedately to his room. Left at a measured and controlled pace. All right, run away in a panic.
It wasn't as if John were going to remember it. Sherlock had got the formula right. Of course he had. He noted, in passing, that it was a full moon.
He waited in his room until he heard John lumbering slowly up the stairs what must have been a couple of hours later - had he just sat there in his chair, gaping the entire time? Fallen asleep? - before emerging himself and carefully cleaned up any evidence of what had transpired. He washed and put away the water glass and fluffed up the pillow on John's chair - just remembering John sitting there staring up at him, the look on his face in the split second between the end of Sherlock's sentence and the kiss, made Sherlock's stomach twist in a deliciously uncomfortable way. For good measure, he tidied the sitting room a bit, not wanting to trigger John's memory in any way should his eye light on a magazine or stray teacup that he may have happened to be looking at when Sherlock said what he said - God, why had he said that of all things! Although, granted, it was hardly going to be the kind of thing John would forget, so as experimental measures went, it was excellent.
And then he sat down at his microscope and waited. It was after nine - John had a day off - and Sherlock had a crick in his neck by the time John finally trundled heavily down the stairs, the water apparently not having prevented all the aftereffects of the alcohol.
Sherlock braced himself.
John walked into the kitchen, wearing his dressing gown, a bundle of clean clothes under his arm. He murmured a 'good morning', his voice still thick with sleep and disappeared into the bathroom.
All right. That was a good start. Early days yet, though, early days. Maybe he wanted to be fresh and alert before broaching what was certain to be a sticky subject.
Sherlock busied himself with making tea and - as he actually was a bit peckish and needed something to do with his hands - toast and scrambled eggs while the shower ran.
Twenty minutes later, John came out, shaved and dressed, looked pleasantly surprised at the cuppa and plate of food on the table, sat down, and dug in.
Nothing. Sherlock relaxed fractionally. John mentioned needing milk. He was neither avoiding Sherlock's eyes nor seeking them out. Sherlock relaxed a bit more. When he was finished, John thanked Sherlock for the breakfast and began clearing his dishes, taking Sherlock's at the same time. His arm brushed Sherlock's as he reached across to take his cup. No reaction. No flinch, no checking to see if it was welcome, nothing.
Sherlock decided to press the issue.
"I'm er... sorry about last night," he offered, trying to sound hesitant and standoffish, as he imagined he'd sound if he really had meant what he said and were actually sorry for having taken liberties. It wasn't a huge stretch.
John frowned, pausing halfway to the sink. "What, the- Oh," he said, his features clearing. "Yeah, I must have fallen asleep on the chair. Don't worry about it, my own fault. One too many, I'm afraid." He smiled ruefully and dropped the dishes into the sink with a clatter. "I'll get that later," he said, walking away. "Or you could..." he added meaningfully but without any real weight behind it. And then he took his jacket off the hook and disappeared down the stairs, calling back something about his sister or the bank or something equally dull.
Sherlock appeared to have got away with it. Oddly, he wasn't entirely relieved.
As any scientist worth their salt knows, however, the results needed to be replicable. And so Sherlock tried again that night. The next morning, however, John nagged Sherlock into getting dressed and had him halfway out the door before Sherlock realised what was going on.
He rolled his eyes as if he'd just remembered. "Oh! Lestrade texted back earlier. Not the same man."
John's shoulders slumped. "They sure?"
"The toenails proved it," Sherlock said, aiming for regretful.
"Damn," John said bitterly.
But then Sherlock wasn't sure if it was the phase of the moon or the lack of alcohol that had caused the failure, so further experiments were in order.
This went on for a week or two, with sporadic success and Sherlock growing increasingly frustrated - and running out of spurious information to feed John - when the sound of John's feet once again clumping up the stairs had Sherlock reaching for the little glass vial in his pocket. It had been someone's engagement party - one of the minor badges from NSY, Sherlock had been invited as well but honestly, who were they kidding. John paused in the doorway, cheeks and nose showing the three beers and four (really, John?) shots, and if Sherlock didn't know better, he'd have said that was a rather soppy look being aimed in his direction, but it was obviously just the alcohol. John's face broke into a somewhat sheepish smile that he seemed to be having some trouble hiding, but he just sighed, hung his jacket on the hook by the door, and headed for the bathroom.
Sherlock prepared the glass, and when John came out again - somewhat more in control of his features, having splashed liberal amounts of cold water on his face - he collapsed easily into his chair and accepted the doctored drink from Sherlock.
"Cheers," he said, taking a sip. He rested the glass on the arm of the chair and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. The collar of his shirt was askew, one point inside his jumper and the other one outside. Sherlock's fingers twitched with the need to fix it.
Sherlock cast about for what he was going to test John with this time. He didn't have anything in mind yet. He had to wait until John had finished the drink anyway, and then wait again until he started showing the effects.
In the meantime, he picked up his violin and fiddled with it, tuning it and plucking it until he felt settled enough to try an actual melody. He wasn't sure what he started with, but he ended up playing a piece that John had mentioned liking the last time he played it. It was slow and plaintive, not quite sad but perhaps a bit melancholy. Perhaps a bit the way he felt when John was out and he was here, alone, with his unwelcome thoughts and impossible dreams and all the awkwardness of being pimply and seventeen and knowing what he wanted but also knowing he could never have it.
He didn't even notice John had got up and was standing next to him until he finished and opened his eyes. He hadn't realised he'd closed them.
"That was nice," John said. He was standing very close to Sherlock. His words were a bit sloppy, and his eyes were a bit glassy. His mouth, his chin, the way his fringe fell just so over his forehead: those were all John and made something jump inside Sherlock's chest.
Sherlock glanced at John's chair. The glass was empty on the floor next to it. Sherlock hadn't thought up tonight's test yet. Then John, brilliant John, thought it up for him.
"Come on," he said, putting his hand over Sherlock's on the violin. "Put that away." His voice was warm and smooth and rumbly all at the same time.
Sherlock put the violin away. John didn't let go of his hand. He may in fact have been holding on more firmly than was either necessary or conducive to efficient movement.
John kept holding Sherlock's hand all the way up to his bedroom. He let go long enough to help Sherlock out of his dressing gown and t-shirt and pyjama trousers. Sherlock stood there and watched in the half-light coming in through the window while John took off his own clothes. He had to steady John by the shoulder when he took off his trousers and pants, reminding him it would be helpful to take the shoes off first. John laughed in a muffled sort of way and did that, and then they were both naked. John got onto his bed. He didn't pull Sherlock with him or say anything, but Sherlock could take a hint.
Once they were both under the covers, John kissed him. It was much better and much worse than Sherlock had ever imagined it might be. Better because they were together in John's bed and John was warm and naked and his mouth was sweet and earthy and his hands were on Sherlock's skin. Worse because John was drunk and under the influence of a benzodiazepine derivative and didn't actually want him here at all.
Sherlock kissed him back like there wasn't going to be a tomorrow.
John didn't say anything the entire time. Not when Sherlock rubbed and pinched his nipples to pin-sharp points. Not when Sherlock reached between them and weighed his testicles in his hand, rolling them between his fingers. Not even when he licked his hand and wrapped it around John's cock. Of course, the fact that Sherlock didn't remove his mouth from John's the entire time might have been a factor. It wasn't until the end, when John jerked and gasped and let loose with a string of 'Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck's and ejaculated hot and thick into the crease of Sherlock's thigh that the silence was broken.
Sherlock waited until John's breathing evened out and then he slid out from under him, gathered his clothes, and went back downstairs.
The next morning, Sherlock left the flat before John got up. He couldn't face either John remembering or John not remembering. It had not, he recalled, been a full moon last night, for whatever that was worth. He had to come back eventually, of course, but only after fortifying himself with a day of visiting his contacts and smoking half a pack of cigarettes.
When he finally returned late that night, he saw from outside that the lights in the flat were on. John was home. He steeled himself.
000000
John Watson was not stupid. He knew Sherlock was putting something in that water. He hadn't cottoned on at first - naively thinking that his flatmate was merely being solicitous - but after the third time he was presented with a full-to-the-brim glass of water when he came home after stopping by the pub, he had his suspicions. The fact that Sherlock would stand there and stare at him until he'd downed the entire thing was another giant, flashing clue.
But, odd as it might sound, he trusted the man not to subject him to anything too horrible - and he was morbidly curious, as well as being prepared this time for hallucinations of mad dogs with glowing eyes. But, to his disappointment, he never noticed any effects. Of course, that didn't mean there weren't any. His liver might be liquefying, or Sherlock could be building up an immunity to arsenic in him, or he might be sleepwalking naked on the rooftoops. But he woke up every morning with nothing worse than a mild hangover, which was fully attributable to the drinks from the previous night. Maybe, he thought optimistically, Sherlock was trying out some new hangover cure. If so, however, he really should be asking more pointed questions the next day.
He would have liked to take a sample of the water to Molly and have her run some tests on it, but he could never figure how to keep back enough to be useful, with Sherlock hanging over him until he finished and whisking the glass away to wash the moment he was. He did the next best thing and had every conceivable test done on his blood the next day, but of course they couldn't find anything.
So he let Sherlock continue. And the thing was, he really enjoyed those evenings. He'd sit there with his mild buzz from his pint or two and Sherlock would talk about things, flapping around in his dressing gown, pacing and gesturing.
To tell the truth, John didn't normally drink that much. Once, maybe twice a week, tops. But as soon as he realised what Sherlock's M.O. was, he found excuses to go to the pub three, four, even five times a week just so he could come home afterwards and spend the evening with Sherlock. His friends must have thought he was turning into a lush. He even resorted to chatting up random women when he couldn't find anyone he knew who was willing to go a round with him. He wasn't quite pathetic enough to go drinking entirely alone.
Once home and ensconced in his chair with his obligatory glass of possibly poisoned water drunk, John would nod and smile and answer yes or no and just generally enjoy being the target of Sherlock's flow of speech. And the cheekbones. He definitely enjoyed the cheekbones. And the mouth. And the curve of his pyjama-clad arse and the fleeing glimpses - when he allowed himself - of the tantalising lumps in the front whose contours were sometimes revealed when Sherlock took a particularly vigorous step.
The confession, though, that had come as a bit of a shock. The kiss even more so. One minute he'd been sitting there, having dutifully drunk his medicine, ready to settle in for another evening in front of the Sherlock channel, when Sherlock had blurted out that most shocking of admissions, leaned down, kissed him, and hightailed it out of the room.
Huh. John had sat there for a good long while, trying to figure out whether Sherlock was serious or whether it was all part of the water experiment. Although the one didn't necessarily exclude the other. Or maybe it was something else altogether. The thing was, where Sherlock Holmes was concerned, John had learned early on that it was better to play your emotions close to your chest. Sherlock didn't do emotional - or physical - entanglements. It wasn't just that whole 'not my area' conversation they'd had that first night, either. It was his entire essence, the way he lived, the way he interacted with people. And so John couldn't help but feel it was maybe all a bit too much wishful thinking on his part. He'd gone to bed resolved only to say something if Sherlock did, and otherwise to go on as if nothing had happened.
Breakfast was another surprise, and much easier to deal with, in that he simply ate it. The apology had almost thrown him, but John decided to play dumb, and as Sherlock didn't correct him, he figured he'd passed whatever test it was. And that was that.
They went back to the offerings of water and the rambling monologues, but something was different. John could tell. Sherlock was rushed and nervous - more so than usual - and he seemed frustrated by something, the way he got when a case was dragging on longer than it should and he still hadn't seen the solution. John was frustrated too, but he knew asking Sherlock directly would only cause him to retreat further.
It didn't help things that John couldn't stop thinking about that kiss. It had been dry and quick, but there had been a gentleness and longing there that made John think Sherlock really had meant it. He could still feel the stubble on Sherlock's chin prickling against his skin, still smell the faintly pungent scent of unwashed Sherlock that had wafted up out of his t-shirt, and still see the fleeting look of panic that had crossed Sherlock's face when he stood up again, before whirling around and beating his hasty retreat.
It got to the point where John was fairly miserable over the whole situation, and when Sergeant Pennington's engagement do went down, he may have ended up having a couple of shots too many and saying more to Greg than he'd actually intended to.
"I'm bloody thirty-eight years old and pining after a sociopath," he'd said, glaring morosely into his last - absolutely last - pint.
"You know that's all a bunch of bollocks, right?" Greg said.
"Yeah, but he doesn't," John said, taking another sip.
"Yeah, I get you." Greg clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"He actually kissed me the other ... night? Last week? Month?" John couldn't remember. It seemed so long ago, like it was yesterday. He belched, a bit. His stomach was getting kind of full. He didn't mention the whole 'I'm in love with you' part because that was too naff even for drunken engagement party confessions.
Greg's hand slid off his shoulder and he leaned his elbow on the table to get a better look at John. His eyes were wide. "What'd you do?"
"Nothing." John shrugged. "He ran off right after."
"And afterwards?" Greg had that kind of incredulous look on his face like when he couldn't quite follow one of Sherlock's theories.
"Nothing," John said again. "He didn't mention it, so I didn't either."
"John, this is Sherlock. Do you really think he's going to want to talk about it? For him to take the first step like that, that's pretty much like champagne and roses from anyone else. He was probably waiting to see what you did, and now he thinks you're not interested."
John's heart sank. "Oh God." Greg was right. Had to be. That's what all the tension was about.
"Unless you're not interested," Greg added.
John shook his head, his appetite for his drink gone. "No, I'm... I fucked up, didn't I?"
"I don't think it's too late to fix it."
So that's what John tried to do. When he got home, he splashed some cold water on his face and tried to sober up, drank his water, and listened to Sherlock serenade him with the most heart-wrenching look on his face. And then he took him to bed.
When he woke up the next morning, however, alone in bed with a screaming headache - apparently whatever Sherlock was putting in that water, it was not entirely effective at preventing hangovers - and Sherlock entirely absent from the flat, he began to think he might not have done such a bang-up job of fixing things after all.
000000
John heard Sherlock coming up the stairs. He got up and went to the kitchen. Sherlock stopped outside the door. John froze where he was too. Sherlock had to come in, though, unless he meant to avoid John forever. Which ... No. He wasn't going to do that. He was going to pretend nothing had happened, like the first time. John was on to him now.
Sure enough, after another few seconds that seemed to stretch on forever, the door opened briskly and Sherlock came in, unwinding his scarf.
John turned on the water and filled the glass. When Sherlock heard the sound of the water running, he came around the corner and looked into the kitchen. John met his eyes and turned off the water. He walked over to Sherlock and held out the glass.
Sherlock's eyes flickered down to the glass and back at John. John put more determination into his expression and nudged the glass at Sherlock. Sherlock took the glass and drank everything, never taking his eyes off John. When he was done, there was a line of moisture on his upper lip. John's fingers itched with the need to wipe it away. John took the glass away from him and set it on the table. His heart was beating so hard he was sure Sherlock could see it right through his shirt.
It took him several more deep breaths to get the words out. "I'm really quite hopelessly in love with you, Sherlock Holmes." Then he took a step forward so they were toe to toe, reached up to put his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, and pulled him down for a kiss. It was dry, and brief, and so full of longing and affection that John was frankly surprised his lips didn't spontaneously combust. He tasted the cigarettes on Sherlock's breath but let it slide. He probably hadn't tasted a treat topped up with beer and whisky the other night either.
Then he took a step back again and stood there stoically, trying not to look too desperate or pathetic. His fists clenched and unclenched but he held Sherlock's gaze with a steadiness he didn't quite feel.
Sherlock's brain must have either gone offline or into overdrive, as he just stood there for several long, long seconds. John could actually see the flush rising on his cheeks. Overdrive it was then.
Finally, Sherlock dropped his eyes. His mouth opened and he inhaled, quick and shallow, before reaching out to grasp John's fingers.
"Come on," he said, his voice catching on the words.
Then he walked toward his bedroom, pulling John after him.
Once in the bedroom, John closed the door behind them, and Sherlock dropped his hand. They both stood there in the dark, breathing.
Sherlock was the first to move. Rather than starting to undress John, though, he moved in close enough that their chests were brushing, put his hands on John's shoulders and let them slowly slide down his arms. John put his hands on Sherlock's hips and snugged him in more tightly. Sherlock brushed his nose, then his lips over John's cheek. John turned his face just enough to catch Sherlock's mouth, and then he kissed him as if there weren't going to be any tomorrow.
Sherlock didn't say anything when John unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt with blind fingers and slid it off his shoulders. He didn't say anything when John's hands found their way to his flies and opened them (although he may have had to stifle an unbecoming moan when John inadvertently brushed his cock through his pants). They worked together to get Sherlock's trousers and pants off, John peppering Sherlock's stomach and chest with kisses when he bent over, and again on the way back up. John started to take off his own clothes, but Sherlock had had enough of the parallel play and anyway he was getting impatient, so he knelt down and dealt with John's jeans and underwear while John did the same with his shirt.
While he was down there, Sherlock took the opportunity to thoroughly acquaint himself with John's cock. It was just a pity there wasn't more light. Still, the lack of visual input only served to heighten the sensitivity of his other senses, and he felt confident, after exploring the smooth, bulbous head, thick, left-leaning shaft, and tight, heavy bollocks with his tongue, lips, and hands that he'd be able to pick them out of any line-up. When a tangy, bitter fluid began to well out of the slit, Sherlock committed that taste to memory as well.
John was rocking his hips back and forth by now, both hands on Sherlock's head, half cradling and half guiding. He was puffing like a steam engine and starting to make sounds that came from somewhere deep in his chest. Maybe even from his heart. Things were dangerously close to ending the way they had the last time, though, and damnit, the whole point tonight was to show Sherlock that John reciprocated his feelings, every last one, not to get his rocks off and then have Sherlock slink off, used and unsatisfied.
So, as difficult as it was, John took a step back and let go of Sherlock's head.
"John?" Sherlock said, and in that one word, John could hear all the uncertainty and potential to be hurt.
So, "Come here," he answered, low and firm, and got onto Sherlock's bed. This man and his heart were his responsibility, and he was going to make sure he was as safe and secure as John could make him. As safe and secure as he made John.
Sherlock followed. "John," he said as he settled himself in next to John, "what exactly did you put in the water?"
John paused, holding the cover up. "There wasn't anything in the water. Other than your usual heavy metals and other unsavouries." He dropped the cover down over both of them. "Do I want to know what you put in my water?"
Sherlock hesitated a long time, but finally said, "No."
That was fine with John. Truly. Only... "Was your experiment successful, at least?"
Another long pause. Then: "No experiment can ever really be a failure, even if it doesn't deliver the expected results."
"So, not what you expected?" John smiled through his words and put his hands right where Sherlock wanted them, which was on his body.
"No, but welcome all the same." Sherlock put his hands on John, too, and touched him in all the places he had the last time and more besides.
Afterwards, with John breathing quietly beside him (it turned out he dropped off immediately after sex regardless of the amount of alcohol in his body), Sherlock caught a glimpse of the moon out his window. It was the barest waning crescent.
