Drunk. He'd been very, very drunk. That's the only reason it happened, obviously. And now his head hurt and he felt rather nauseous. This is why he doesn't drink. Cocaine and nicotine, fine, but alcohol simply makes people ill and stupid.

"John."

Rather irritated, sitting up in bed, Sherlock reached over and poked John in the shoulder with his index finger.

"John."

With a pained groan, John Watson opened his eyes.

"Wha-"

"We had sex, John."

At this John looked over at Sherlock. He sighed.

"Shit."

"My sentiments exactly."

"How drunk-"

"Enough not to remember. And obviously for me to have sex."

"But... I'm not even gay."

Sherlock gave a tiny chuckle. John glared at him.

"So I suppose you're going to tell me you know I'm attracted to you because of the colour of my shirt or something."

"No, I know you're attracted to me because you look at me when you think I'm not looking. Sometimes when we're talking, particularly when we're arguing, you start licking your lips and I can see your pupils dilate. You have been for several months now. No, it's my own behaviour I'm concerned about."

John buried his head in his pillow.

"I can't do this yet, Sherlock. I need... water. Painkillers. More sleep. Then hopefully I'll wake up and discover I dreamt this."

"Well that's highly unlikely, considering-"

"Sherlock! Not. Now."

Sensing that he would only have to listen to more (rather obvious) deductions if he stayed in bed, John dragged himself to the kitchen. He guzzled two glasses of water and a painkiller. As an afterthought he fetched a glass and a tablet for Sherlock. He assumed the detective wouldn't think to get it for himself as he mentally reconstructed the events of the previous night (which John himself was not entirely ready to process yet).

"Here," he said, handing the glass to Sherlock, who was still sitting as he had been, blankets draped in a rather distracting way.

Sherlock took it silently and John headed for the bathroom. Eventually he returned, feeling a bit better, intending to head for his own bedroom for more sleep.

"Sherlock, are you going to sit there all day, staring at the wall?"

Sherlock looked at him blankly. "I'm thinking. What happened last night wasn't a normal occurrence, and I need to ensure it doesn't happen again."

As much as he would deny it, at Sherlock's words John felt a little like he'd been punched in the stomach.

"Oh," he replied. "If that's how you feel."

He left the room to return to his own. A moment later, Sherlock appeared behind him.

"John!" he said. "I didn't mean... I just meant, when we're drunk. I didn't mean in general."

Frowning, John turned around.

"Sorry, are you saying you do want to have sex again?"

"I've come to the conclusion that it could be... mutually beneficial under the right circumstances."

"Right. And are you aware that you aren't wearing any clothes?"

"Yes. Why?"

"It's just a bit distracting."

Sherlock smirked. "Later, when I'm entirely sober, we're going to do it properly. And I'm going to use every little observation I've ever made of you to make you scream. Ok?"

John gulped. "I have to... go. Out. But I'll be back later and we can... yes."

With the look of a very distracted man, John Watson grabbed his jacket and headed down the stairs.

x

xxx

x

Pulling his jacket tighter around himself, John reached for the door knocker. He gave two sharp knocks. A few moments later the door opened.

"Well, look who it is. Long time no see, little brother."

"Hi, Harry. You're looking... good."

Harriet Watson smiled. "Yeah, things are a bit better. Anyway, come in, it's freezing."

John followed his sister into the house, grateful that she was happy to see him.

"So how's everything going, John? Blog's been a bit quiet lately. No more exciting adventures with what's-his-name?"

"Sherlock. And that's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about."

Something in John's voice made Harry stop and look at him suspiciously.

"Why? What's going on?"

"I need tea before I can have this conversation."

"Blimey, it must be serious," Harry replied, filling the kettle.

"So how have you been?" John asked.

"Not too bad, actually. Three months sober now. And I talked to Clara the other day. Just talked, don't look so hopeful. But we might get there one day."

"That's great, Harry. Really. I'm happy for you."

"Yeah. Now come on, what were you going to tell me?"

As Harry slid a cup of tea across the table to John, he tried to figure out what exactly he was planning on telling his sister.

"Well, it's... a bit complicated but... I mean, you've read my blog. Nothing with Sherlock is quite normal."

"I did gather that, yeah."

"Well we - last night, for no real reason – we both got completely pissed, and apparently... I mean, it was pretty obvious, really, but it's not like I actually remember, but anyway, apparently we... had... sex."

Harry stared at John across the table.

"But you're not gay."

"That's what I said. He laughed at me."

"Right... so what happens now?"

"I have no idea. When I left he basically promised that when we're not drunk he's going to make me scream." John's voice cracked a little. "Jesus. But I mean we've never even... we were friends. Colleagues. Flatmates. I might have been in denial but I never thought he was attracted to anyone, as silly as that sounds. And as we've established, last time I checked I wasn't gay. So it's all just a bit... sudden."

Harry frowned. "He is a bit... well, mad, though. Yeah?"

"Completely."

"Oh, John."

"Oh my God. I actually want to have sex with him."

"Oh, John, John, John. Poor little John."

"What am I going to do?"

"I would recommend that you have sex with him."

"It's not that simple, Harry."

"Do you love him, John?"

John gaped at his sister.

"I... well, I mean, I..."

"John!"

"Yes. God, yes. Shit."

"Then why are you so miserable about it?"

"Harry, we are talking about a sociopathic occasional-junkie who keeps eyeballs in the microwave and shoots things when he's bored."

Harry looked a little stumped by that.

"Well," she said. "Nobody's perfect."