They were drunk. Drunk enough not to be able to walk a straight line, but not drunk enough that they couldn't make it up the stairs to the flat in one piece. It was a near thing for a minute there, but with much ribbing and stumbling, they arrived. They collapsed onto the couch, giggling. It was ridiculous.

Why was it ridiculous?

Oh yes, because Sherlock had only intended for them to get tipsy. Tipsy, not drunk, to avoid the dreaded hangover as well as any unfortunate decisions that might be made under the influence. Not that he expected he would do anything rash, but John was another matter altogether. Which was why it was ridiculous that John kept slipping shots of liquor into their beers when Sherlock wasn't looking. It would only get them drunk, and John would do something amusing but which he would regret in the morning-

Actually, it was fine, it was all fine. After all, Sherlock wasn't the one who would wake up with someone else's underpants on his head, or with only one shoe on, or with the scores to a rugby match written on his forehead in permanent ink. John was the one who got himself into those situations. Sherlock just got to enjoy them the next morning. Maybe he could supply a pair of pants and see if he could dare John to wear them over his trousers like a comic book hero.

"Hey, Sherlock, I'm just gonna-" John fell sideways across Sherlock's lap trying to reach for the remote. He sprawled in a manner most undignified, then proceeded to laugh about it instead of apologize and get up. Sherlock giggled again. "Whoopsie," he sing-songed in the most ridiculous way. Sherlock lifted a hand to pat him on the head like a dog but ended up closer to his shoulder. His fingers brushed the skin of John's neck, and John shuddered, twisting away. "Th-that tickles!" he gasped. He immediately noticed the wicked glint in Sherlock's eyes and held up a hand as if to ward off attack. "Oh, no, no-"

Sherlock ignored the shouted protests and ran the tips of his fingers against all the bare skin of John that he could reach, systematically tormenting him with the tickling until John was breathless from laughing. He jerked back, trying to escape, but too much of his weight went sideways and he started to roll off the couch. Automatically, his arms wrapped around the nearest solid object to halt his fall, which just happened to be Sherlock.

They both toppled off the couch in a tangled heap.

"You pulled me over, you… you… neanderthal!" Sherlock had landed partially on top of John and pointed an accusing finger at his nose. John reached an unsteady hand up and grabbed that finger. It took him three passes to actually grasp it.

"Now listen here you neo- nan- you whatever-you-just-called-me, you're the reason we fell. You tickled me!" He said it as if it was a great offense, but the effect was ruined by the goofy grin on his face. Sherlock thought for a moment that the huge, carefree smile made John look rather adorable. It was a passing thought that would have been dismissed before even fully formed, usually, but he blamed the alcohol for the slip.

"I was trying-" Sherlock insisted, trying to pull his finger free from John's grip but only succeeding in changing their hand position. Now their hands were cupped together with their thumbs resting on top. "Trying to pat your head. But you moved. Or I moved, I don't recall."

"I did no such thing. I was just reaching for the remote when the floor tipped up and attacked me."

"I felt no- What are you doing?" Sherlock looked down to where John had pressed his thumb down over Sherlock's. He was starting to count.

"Winning a thumb war."

"A what war?"

"A thumb war. You know. 'One, two, three, four, I declare a thumb war.'"

"I certainly do not know. What is the purpose of this war?"

John tried to shrug, but from his position on his back, it looked more like a wiggle. "Fun, the sake of winning, world domination, you know."

"And all I have to do is hold your thumb down with mine?"

"For four seconds. I've had yours for about five hundred seconds now."

"That's a gross exaggeration, John. Besides, starting before I'm aware there is a war on is cheating. That's what you would say, anyway."

"And you would say that half the wars fought are with one party not knowing there's a war on. Or something like that. It's now a thousand seconds, by the way."

"Damnit all-" Sherlock jerked his thumb out from beneath John's and applied all of his considerable brain power to winning the insipid game. Which would have been far more impressive had he not been inebriated and distracted by the way John seemed to be wiggling beneath him again. Still, his fingers were longer, and he certainly wasn't above cheating. They both tugged and pushed, arcing their thumbs around at each other like vipers facing off. Then Sherlock succeeded in hooking his thumb around John's and pushing down. They tussled, and somehow John ended up on top. Sherlock tried to pull his thumb back, but John's hands were stronger. Sherlock twisted his wrist until his thumb finally slipped free, but suddenly they weren't just wrestling with their thumbs, but with their whole bodies.

"Cheater!" John accused him, rolling so that he straddled Sherlock. Sherlock twisted his hips to try and regain dominance, but John pressed his dense weight down and kept him pinned. His wide smile of success was only slightly ruined by his sudden case of hiccups. Sherlock suppressed the urge to giggle again. Really, this whole thing was quite-

Oh.

Oh.

John had leaned over to try and silence the giggles that it turned out Sherlock hadn't managed to suppress, and suddenly Sherlock was very aware of a certain part of his partner's anatomy. A very… turgid part of his anatomy. How odd. It was odd, wasn't it? Yes, certainly. Considering his current position, in addition to the amount of alcohol he'd consumed (though Sherlock knew for a fact - from a case, of course - that imbibing great quantities of liquor did not necessarily mean that one was incapable of performing sexually), it just didn't make sense.

Except, perhaps it did. After all, how long had it been since John had been on one of his historically disastrous dates? Two months- three? It had been after that case with the purple giraffe, however long ago that had been. But it was far longer than John usually went between shags. So this was just a reaction to not having gotten off in so long. That made sense.

John probably didn't even realize that he had an erection, or he wouldn't be straddling Sherlock like he was. It wasn't as though he was very open about his sex life with Sherlock. He didn't try to hide it, necessarily, but he didn't make the details public and he certainly had never pressed his erection against Sherlock's belly like this. It would embarrass him, if he knew. Surely. Then again, Sherlock knew he was physically appealing. Even for someone like John, he was attractive enough to make an exception for. Sherlock let out an impatient little huff. Not that it made any difference. Sherlock wasn't interested in sex, and besides, it would likely only be another week before John's libido got the best of him and he interrupted one of their cases so that he could go on a date.

Or- or maybe that didn't have to happen. Suddenly, the alcohol haze over Sherlock's brain evaporated and it kicked into high gear. He felt as though the physical world around him was going in slow motion as his thoughts raced forward, John leaning closer one millimeter at a time, his lashes taking ten times as long to sweep down in a single blink. And all the while, a thousand scenarios and ideas flew through Sherlock's mind.

Yes, why not? His body was just transport. Pretty enough to the outward eye. And John, well it was better for Sherlock if John's interest was kept inside 221b, wasn't it? The fact that Sherlock had no real desire to have sex was totally irrelevant. He wanted John. No, he didn't want him physically, but he wanted him in every other way, so why not? It seemed like such a small concession to make. Like Mrs Hudson making the tea, or John doing the shopping. Sherlock could just lie back and let John get himself off, and then there wouldn't be any need for annoying girlfriends hanging around. It all seemed so… convenient.

Right then. New plan. Seduce John Watson. It wouldn't be that difficult, all things considered. And the scene was already perfectly set. They were drunk, John was horny, and Sherlock knew for a fact that there was lube in John's nightstand. John would use lube, right? No, no, no second guessing. Sherlock had a Plan. It was a Good Plan. Very logical. Efficient. John would never cause Sherlock any serious injury, even while drunk and horny, and a little discomfort had never been enough to scare him off of a scheme. So it was all settled. He just needed to get John to have sex with him while they were still drunk so that the alcohol dulled the nerves of the first time and cleared the way for a regular habit to form.

Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts less than three seconds after John had straddled him, the world outside of his head suddenly resuming normal speed. John blinked again.

"I, uh-" Those few seconds seemed to have been enough for John to realize the somewhat compromising situation they were in, and he smothered the drunken smile he'd been sporting and prepared to move. Sherlock stopped him by settling his hands on John's hips. John looked down at him questioningly, not able to quite form coherent enough words. Sherlock pushed his hips up between John's legs.

John gasped, his eyes widening and the bulge in the front of his trousers twitched visibly. Sherlock wasn't hard - in fact, his penis was lying politely against his thigh as it always did - but the gesture still seemed to convey his meaning because John was looking down at him with wide, suddenly lust tinged eyes. His pupils had dilated and his heart rate increased. "Sherl-"

"John." Sherlock cut him off, knowing that he needed to get ahead of the many questions John would want to ask. It was very important that they skip past this part. Sherlock was certain that if they could just get this first time out of the way, then the rest of John's concerns would be outweighed by the satisfaction of the arrangement. "I want-" he stopped, both because he knew it was appealing to appear at least somewhat out of his depth, and also because he actually was somewhat out of his depth. Was he supposed to say, 'I want you to fuck me?' or perhaps, 'make love to me?' No, that sounded insipid even in his head. What then?

"You- do you… are you asking-"

"Bed," Sherlock managed to say. It seemed that the situation had robbed both of them of cognizant speech. John still looked uncertain, though, so Sherlock lifted his hips again. "Please."

The word seemed to snap something in John. "Bloody hell," he whispered, seemingly to himself. Then he braced one hand by Sherlock's head, wrapped the other around the back of his neck, and kissed him.

It wasn't Sherlock's first kiss. And he'd seen it coming. He'd had three point two seconds to prepare for it. And yet, Sherlock was totally unprepared for kissing John Watson. Was this what lips had always felt like? Soft but firm, warm and coaxing? Sherlock hadn't really factored in kissing, but it should have been an awkward, messy affair considering both of their blood alcohol levels. Their teeth should have clicked together, there should have been far too much saliva, and John should have had sour breath from the whiskey mixed with the beer.

Somehow, none of those things were true. John's lips slanted over his insistently but gently, his breath chuffing out warm against Sherlock's own and smelling of a mint he must have had earlier. There was a moment for them to acclimate to the feel of their lips against each others, then John's tongue slowly drew against the seam of Sherlock's lips. Automatically, Sherlock opened to allow him entrance. There was no sudden plunge, no flailing appendage thrust into his mouth and trying to mimic sex. John's tongue traced the furl of Sherlock's lower lip, then slipped inside to lap at Sherlock's own tongue softly. It was a foreign sensation, yes, but not an unpleasant one. John tasted of mint and a hint of whiskey, and something else - something Sherlock's mind wanted to label as just 'John,' even though that was ridiculous because every flavor had a name like vanilla or orange or mint and people weren't flavors but there it was all the same, and then-

Then Sherlock realized that John Watson could kiss like nobody's business. His tongue circled Sherlock's slowly, drawing it out until he found himself somehow participating in the kiss instead of just passively accepting it. How odd. How… well it didn't matter. Didn't matter that John was a good kisser, because that wasn't what Sherlock was after, and he needed to clear his head and get things back on track. He slid his hands down from John's waist to his thighs, thumbs forming a V that didn't quite touch the tented fabric covering his cock. John groaned and Sherlock took a strange kind of satisfaction in that. Sex wasn't so complicated, after all. He could do this. Easy.

John broke the kiss and pulled back a little, his one hand still cupping the back of Sherlock's neck, the other rising to splay on Sherlock's chest. "Jesus," he muttered, a smile returning to his lips. "Jesus, Sherlock. You are- you're-"

"Come on, John!" Sherlock didn't have time for him to wax poetical. If they waited too long and the drinks wore off, John would start to question the ramifications of them having sex, and that would make things infinitely harder. He dug his thumbs into John's inner thighs lightly and rubbed upwards a little.

"Always so fucking impatient," John quipped, still smirking. "How do you want to do this then? We could just- I mean, would you rather-"

"Fuck. Me." Sherlock enunciated. "Now."

"Shit, Sherlock! Just- just, do you mean that literally?"

"Yes," Sherlock clarified impatiently. "Your cock, my arse."

John's cheeks colored at the words, but he didn't balk. No, John never balked. Not when Sherlock dropped eyeballs into his tea or walked in carrying a ten foot harpoon. Sherlock felt an odd surge of pride for the man, then smothered it because it was unimportant. "Alright," John breathed. "Alright." He set about undoing the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, fumbling with them a bit until Sherlock started working on them as well and then they were in a race to see who could bare more of Sherlock's chest the quickest. Then the silk fell open and Sherlock yanked John's jumper over his head, and the t-shirt below it as well. A flutter of something that felt vaguely akin to nerves settled in Sherlock's belly when John unfastened his trousers, but Sherlock squashed it.

They shuffled around for a moment, trying to shove down trousers and pants, untangling their legs when they realized that they were both still wearing shoes, then nearly jumping at the contact of heated skin against skin. The analytical part of Sherlock's brain that was still functioning wondered how many degrees sexual arousal raised skin temperature. The other part, the part that was only present in the moment, wondered if his skin felt just as hot to John.

"I think- hands and knees, right? It'll be… you'll-" John bit his lip as if he was trying to remember something he'd forgotten. LUBE, Sherlock wanted to shout at him, but he didn't dare. If he threw off John's rhythm, he might change his mind, and it wasn't a risk Sherlock was willing to take. Just a little bit of pain, after all, nothing he couldn't handle. It would be fine. Maybe he ought to offer John oral sex just so that there was at least some moisture- "Shit, no, we need-" John pulled back, settling onto his heels and then rising. A swoop of relief flitted through Sherlock's stomach and he found himself quite irritated about it. Still, he took John's hand when it was offered and let himself be pulled up. "Come on. My room." Then John led them up the stairs.

Just outside the door, Sherlock paused to slip off his remaining sock. It seemed like a strange thing to be concerned about, considering they were otherwise naked and holding hands, but it was an indignity Sherlock wasn't going to suffer. He tossed the sock back down the stairs and let John lead him into the bedroom. Conscious that the change in scenery could put a damper on things, Sherlock lurched forward - perhaps not all the alcohol had deserted him, after all - and sprawled on the bed. Aware that his penis was still flaccid and that might concern John, he landed face down and then looked over his shoulder. John was staring at him. Intensely. Appreciatively. It was a little unnerving, truth be told.

"John," Sherlock bit out. The word seemed to snap him out of his reverie, because John approached the bed and knelt on it. He leaned over Sherlock to reach into the night stand and grab - fuck, yes - a bottle of lube.

"Are you sure, Sherlock?" John asked him, running a hand down the length of Sherlock's spine slowly. Sherlock had a moment to idly wonder if anyone had ever touched him like that before, then quickly answered.

"Yes. Hurry."

Probably taking his impatience for eagerness, John lifted Sherlock's hips and then shifted behind him. There was a soft click, then the wet sound of John slicking his cock. The little bottle was tossed aside and John's hands were back at Sherlock's hips again, one of them slightly sticky. "God, I can't believe-" John moved a little closer and his cock brushed against Sherlock's exposed arse, making them both jump slightly. "You're so-" Unable to complete even a single thought, John lifted one hand from Sherlock's hip (the sticky one, thankfully) and gripped himself with it, then pushed the tip of his cock against Sherlock's tight opening. It lodged in the crevice and they both shuddered, but didn't go any further even when John pushed. "Fuck! Jesus you're tight, Sherlock. I don't know if I can-" Then suddenly the pressure of his cock was gone and a much smaller appendage replaced it.

John slipped his still slick finger inside, more abruptly than he had intended. Sherlock tensed, unprepared for the intense and foreign sensation. His whole body washed cold with it for a moment before he forced himself to relax. "Alright?" John asked huskily behind him.

"Yes," Sherlock assured him a little breathlessly. Even to his own ears, it sounded eager and sensual. Really, it was just his mind trying to regain total, rigid control of his body, but it didn't feel like a lie because he wasn't trying to mislead John with his reactions. John fingered him slowly for several moments, then pulled his hand away and replaced it with his cock once more. When he pushed this time, the head of it wedged inside. They both gasped. An over-full, burning sensation began to spread through Sherlock and he forced himself to remain pliant and relaxed while John slowly but steadily pushed further inside of him.

"Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck." John let himself breathe again when he felt the tops of his thighs hit the backs of Sherlock's. He was buried inside him to the hilt. It was intense, nearly oppressive heat, and so fucking tight, John thought it would be a miracle if he lasted more than ten seconds, despite the fact that usually alcohol made him last longer. His body curled over Sherlock's until his forehead touched between Sherlock's shoulder blades and he stayed perfectly still, breathing in the scent of him and trying to gather his foggy wits. "Are you alright?" he asked again in a ragged whisper. There was a worrying pause, then Sherlock nodded.

"I'm fine. Fuck me." Sherlock's voice was tight, but it was all he could do to keep so many pieces of himself rigidly controlled. He felt as though there were too many sensations to categorize, that he might fly apart trying. It was a relief, at least, that it wasn't pain. It didn't hurt the way a knife wound or a bullet graze hurt. It was a sharp ache, a dull burn that had been terribly intense at first but was starting to ease somewhat. It was uncomfortable. But not unbearable. No. And in the future, when Sherlock wasn't rushing him and they weren't both drunk, John would likely spend more time preparing him so that the invasion wasn't so difficult.

Already, he was starting to adjust to the fullness of it, the heat and strange twinging that sent a fluttering bolt through his stomach. He let out a slow breath. Doable. Very doable. If this was what it cost to keep John all to himself, then really, it was a small price to pay.

John pulled back and thrust forward, renewing the intensity of the sensations and sending that tingle up to his belly again. He grunted, not expecting the force of John's next thrust. His whole body rocked forward and John pulled him back to meet the motion. Sherlock lowered himself on his elbows for a moment and when John thrust forward this time there was a pop of something and Sherlock didn't know if he needed to come or vomit or piss or all three. Immediately, he pushed back up to his hands and thankfully, the too-intense sensation didn't return. John's thrusts were erratic, his breath leaving him in harsh exhalations that Sherlock was sure he could use as indicators of his arousal level (if only he could get his mind to focus), then he reached around and slipped his hand between Sherlock's legs.

Presumably, it was to jerk him off while John fucked him, but there was one problem with that. Sherlock still wasn't hard. And despite how close John was to orgasm, Sherlock thought that would make him stop. To prevent it, Sherlock supported himself on one hand and brought the other up to lace his fingers with John's. It was difficult to keep himself balanced, but somehow the contact seemed to ground him a little. He wasn't getting any sexual pleasure from what they were doing, no, but John was. John was touching him softly, mumbling a constant stream of praise that Sherlock found secretly soothing - you feel so good, you're so bloody gorgeous, god you have no idea what you do to me, you're incredible - and Sherlock found himself rocking backwards, impaling himself on John's cock just to hear him gasp in pleasure.

When his arm was trembling from the strain of holding himself up and he felt as though he was about to collapse, John's movements became faster and more erratic. He thrust hard and deep, his stream of expletives and praise interrupted by a sudden, "Sh-sherlock, I'm going to-"

"Yes," Sherlock urged him. "Do it, John." And then with a low groan of pure bliss, John came. He took in a deep breath, then collapsed forward, his limbs shaking. The weight of it drove Sherlock down to the mattress and John landed on top of him. His softening cock slipped free. Sherlock thought that it would be a relief to have the alien fullness gone, but found instead that the sudden void was almost as uncomfortable.

John rolled slightly to the side, keeping himself still pressed along Sherlock's body but not leaving the bulk of his weight on him. Sherlock appreciated the gesture even though John's weight wasn't by any means too much for him to bear.

"H-how was-" John was still trying to catch his breath, but his hand fluttered above Sherlock before touching his shoulder softly.

"Perfect. Exactly what I wanted."

"Did you-"

"Thank you, John," Sherlock cut off the question he knew John was trying to ask. A question to which he would not like the honest answer. He turned his head in time to see John blush.

"I, er- you're welcome. Thank you." He smiled softly at Sherlock, and suddenly the lingering burn and ache in his arse was nothing compared to the tightness in Sherlock's chest. It didn't make sense. Not at all. He'd gotten exactly what he'd asked for. The Plan had gone perfectly. So why was John's almost shy smile doing funny things to Sherlock's insides? "I don't even kno-" his words were cut off with a yawn, and Sherlock saw it as a perfect opportunity to end the night while they were ahead.

"I'm so-" he allowed himself to act on the mirror impulse to yawn as well, then lowered his lashes to half mast.

"Me too," John murmured, his exhaustion resurging stronger than before. "Christ I'm knackered. Maybe we can just close our eyes for a bit, catch some rest. I'll grab us water in a bit."

"Yes. Yes, good." Sherlock let his eyes drift shut and listened to the sound of John's breathing slowing down and evening out. It took less than three minutes and the man was out like a light. Sherlock opened his eyes again and stared across the darkness at him. John's face was as familiar and comforting as ever, looking perhaps a bit younger than his years while so totally relaxed.

Sherlock took the quiet time to reflect on what had just happened. He'd gotten drunk with his best and only friend, then seduced him. Normally, ethics meant very little to him, but now he wondered if it had been somehow morally wrong to have arranged things this way. Technically, they were both drunk, so it wasn't as though it was an issue of consent. Yes, he'd allowed John's drunkenness to hide the fact that Sherlock hadn't actually been aroused while they had sex, but that hadn't detracted from John's pleasure any so why should it make him feel guilty?

Already, he could hear John's arguments. He could hear the protests about wanting a partner who was getting just as much out of the event as he was. Sherlock had counter arguments for all of those, though. Ones he would make use of in the morning. In the meantime, he had only himself to argue with.

Letting down the nothing really gets to me wall that he kept doubly reinforced at all times, Sherlock thought about how he really felt. It had affected him more than he cared to admit. Not because of the discomfort, though that had been a bit more than he had expected as well, but because it was John giving it to him. Was it just because he knew how abhorrent John would find the idea of causing Sherlock pain - especially during sex? Or perhaps because for so long he had associated the doctor with nothing but excitement and comfort and security? Still, he could admit that there had been a measure of psychological pleasure to be gotten from the experience that was equal to the pain, if not exceeded it.

The way John had praised him, had stroked and held him, were things Sherlock would never have expected from anyone, let alone the practical Doctor Watson. Not that Sherlock thought John was a cold fish with his sexual partners, but that was with women. Dates he wanted to be gentle with, to pamper and flatter - not falsely, no, but because they would enjoy it and he wanted them to get enjoyment from it. Sherlock wasn't like that, though. He didn't need to be told that his physical appearance was appealing. Didn't need reminded that he was 'incredible' especially since while the sentiment was true, the incredible thing about him was his mind, which had very little role in sex. But in spite of all that, Sherlock had still liked it.

Maybe he really was an egomaniac. After all, he liked it when John told him that his deductions were amazing, that he was brilliant and talented. So he supposed it made a certain sort of sense that it would spill over to sex. Alright then, one mystery solved.

He moved on, examining the blinding sensation that had washed over him when he'd gone down to his elbows. A simple anatomy review told him that it had been caused by John's cock hitting his prostate, but the overall effect had been surprising. Anecdotal evidence suggested that it was supposed to be a pleasurable thing, but Sherlock was tempted to disagree. There had been some pleasure, yes, but it was a sickly, overwhelming sort of pleasure that felt almost as much like a punch to the gut as a pull to orgasm. It was possible that since he'd never experienced any kind of prostate stimulation before, having a stiff cock slam into it was simply too much to be enjoyable, but that was something to consider at a later time. It wasn't as though he was going to be looking into it as a means of sexual stimulation.

All in all, he decided that the Plan was a resounding success. He'd managed to have sex with John and bypassed all the ethical questions John was bound to nag him with later. He'd also gotten the pesky 'first time' out of the way, and from what little he'd read on the subject, further sexual encounters would likely be far less uncomfortable. He'd found the entire experience to be very manageable, and could even tell John with complete honesty that he had gotten some pleasure from the ordeal. Eventually, he would be able to talk John round to his way of thinking, and he would realize that the satisfaction Sherlock got from keeping John to himself as well as the satisfaction of making John feel so good was an equal exchange for the physical pleasure John got in their coupling. If anything, Sherlock was getting the better end of the deal. It was just a few minutes of physical exertion he was giving. John was giving Sherlock everything.

It was that thought that put a small smile on his face as he fell asleep, forgetting the water and paracetamol he'd planned to put on the night stand.