Okay, it's been a while since I wrote fanfiction so to get back into it, I'm going to write a little oneshot. Not exactly smut, but implied.

Cheers

Admittedly, this was the first time Sherlock had seen John fully naked. Lying on Sherlock's bed, fully asleep and beyond drunk, John's back glistened in the fluorescent lighting. Sherlock knew for a fact that John usually slept in his boxers (he also knew John usually slept in his own bed) but tonight it seemed the boxers had been lost with his trousers somewhere in the other corner of the room.

Sherlock's room.

John had arrived at the flat roughly quarter past 1:00 a.m., blubbering and stumbling over his feet. He had made it to the kitchen in roughly a good shape, where he proceeded to burn himself making tea and nearly lose a toe in a jam incident. Sherlock stepped in and removed anything dangerous from the inebriated man's way before he could hurt himself any further.

John thanked him by stumbling into his room and undressing himself. Sherlock hadn't noticed until this very moment, when he came into his room after cleaning up John's mess, and found him. Naked.

The man was glorious. His toned muscles, usually hidden by cable-knit jumpers and the occasional bulletproof vest, were outlined in the light. His sandy hair looked a million colors. His upturned nose and thin lips gave his face something of a youthful look, while his lines drew a map of a long and brutal life.

Sherlock had been feeling attracted to John for about as long as he'd known him, to be honest. Since the minute they met in the lab and Sherlock even took the courage to wink at him, he knew that man would be trouble for him.

Being quite unused to feelings of attraction, Sherlock wasn't sure how to proceed. John lay face down in his bed, ass covered by a pillow placed over it. He removed the pillow and quickly covered his best friend in a sheet. Then a heavier blanket.

Standing above him again, Sherlock Holmes knew he hadn't done enough. One part of him wanted to do more to help his friend, and another part wanted to see his wondrous flesh again, if only for a moment. His brain settled the argument by pointing out that John usually slept on his side.

That was enough to prompt Holmes to do his best to flip over John without waking him up. Of course, he failed miserably and Watson's eyes blinked open.

"Mmmmm… Shhh-lock?"

"Shh, John. Go back to sleep."

"Sherrrlllock?" Now John was fully awake. He reached up to feel his friend's face in the dark. "Sherly, what're you doin' in my rooooom?" He drew out the "o" in room longer than he should have.

"John, listen carefully. You're -"

Sherlock was silenced by John's lips as he lunged forward suddenly and kissed him on the mouth. Hard.

The room was quiet save the sound of their heartbeats, until John pulled away. "I've wanted to do that for sooooo long, you don't even know. You're soooo haanndsome, Sherly-whirly."

Sherlock Holmes was having a hard time processing what was going on, but he had the general idea that this had a lot to do with the liquor. Even though he wanted nothing more than to kiss Watson again, he knew it wasn't honest.

"John, you need sleep. You are drunk and you know it." It was a painful sentence for the man to get out.

"No. I might be a little tipsy, but I know how I feel about you!" It might have been more convincing if John wasn't still slurring his words like a cute toddler.

He yanked Sherlock's arm and pulled him onto the bed with him. Even though Sherlock was used to hand to hand combat and escaping from holds, John Watson overpowered him easily.

"John! John, no-" Again, Sherlock was interrupted by being kissed. This time it felt different, though. It was slower, more passionate. John's hands moved to caress the back of his neck and side of his face. Then they moved downwards to the first couple of buttons on his deep purple shirt.

"Mmmm- John! You must stop this."

"Like hell I will! I finally worked up the balls to do this, now I'm not stopping until you realize how I feel about you," said John angrily. Holmes was surprised to hear the passion and emotion behind his partner's voice.

A little part of him desperately wanted to believe that John was telling the truth, and that it wasn't the alcohol speaking. However, Sherlock knew how the human brain worked too well to believe anything John was saying.

And yet, when John started pulling of his shirt, there was no objection. Sherlock didn't say anything as the other man's hands roamed across his pale chest, working their way down to the button on his trousers. He barely flinched as those wandering fingers played with the waistband to his pants.

Sherlock Holmes had wanted this for a long time. He had wanted John more than anything else; more than he hated Anderson and more than he despised his brother. He wanted John in a feral, possessive way. He wanted to take him and never let the world see him. He would hide John away from the looks those middle aged women at the shops gave him and from Mycroft's perverted cameras and from the dangers of the outside world.

In his own obsessive way, Sherlock was madly in love with John Watson.

So that's why, when John's tongue invaded his mouth and his fingers touched him in all the places he found disgusting about himself, he didn't make a move to stop him anymore. Sherlock was tired of hiding his feelings.

So was John.