A/N: BECAUSE OF THIS FANART ASDFGHJKL; LOOK AT IT. LOOK AT IT RIGHT NOW.

NOTE: NSFW. BUT OMGOMGOMG

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h t t p : / / nightmare-kisser. tumblr. com/post/19646988045/sherlock-stirs-awake-slowly-his-head-is-pounding

I found out later that the image was originally made for a fanfic, so in a way, I rewrote a story without realizing it, but mine and the original are very different, so it hardly matters. X3

Sherlock stirs awake slowly. His head is pounding and groggy, and he feels a chill running over his entire body. His sheets are lumpy beneath him. What the fuck happened last night?

He rubs a hand over his face, and slowly, the soreness sinks in. His limps ache and certain areas burn, like his shoulder. He jerks awake and stands from the bed, aiming to inspect himself; but he gets distracted when he sees the mess around him.

There are bottles of wine, empty, scattered about the floor. Broken wine glasses, stains in the carpet from the purple-red alcoholic beverage. But that isn't the worst of it.

In the chaos, there lie open and unopened condom packets, dirty and discarded, tied-off or merely slipped-off condoms on the floor and in the folds of the sheets; and a bottle of lubricant, nearly emptied, sitting near the foot of the bed. There is even the platter on the floor on the other side of the bed, and Sherlock's purple shirt is draped over the headboard and John's green jacket is on the floor beside the end table, but even this isn't the worst of it.

John is lying in Sherlock's bed, his right hand handcuffed to one of the rails of the headboard. His wrist is rubbed raw, no longer bleeding, but had previously been. John's plaid shirt is still on one arm. He was clearly cuffed before his clothing was removed.

Sherlock's coat is acting as a makeshift blanket for John's very naked body, and there are bite marks on him everywhere. His thighs, around his nipples, at the back of his neck, along his bicep and shoulders, and there are bruises on his feet and other wrist. His lip is cut and swollen on one side, and there is a scratch across his cheek. There are scratches in other places, too, and when Sherlock looks back to himself, feeling his shoulder, he realizes that those are scratch marks as well.

Sherlock feels sick to his stomach. It could be the lingering effects of the vast quantities of the wine, so he turns and wobble-rushes into the bathroom to let it out.

Water running, he wipes his mouth and looks up at himself in the mirror above the sink.

God, how could he do that to John? How could anyone do that to their best friend and flatmate?

Because there is no mistaking what went on the previous night; there's no hiding the undeniable proof of every little thing that occurred, even if Sherlock can't directly remember the events himself in his current state. It will most likely flood back to him soon, but for now, he's left reeling, dizzy and sore.

His muscles ache. He can only imagine what they got up to and can only estimate for how many hours over the course of the night. It feels like a strain of at least two, maybe three hours of rigorous exercise. And that tells Sherlock enough right there.

Let's see… they had a few drinks with everyone at the New Year's party, but after everyone went home around nine, there was too much alcohol leftover, so John suggested that he and Sherlock not let it go to waste, for them to let go for a while. And Sherlock was compliant and bored, so he gave in. They consumed it for the next four or five hours, and in between being on a constant buzz and utterly pissed, there must have been the sex. And a lot of it, rough and hungry and so animalistic that Sherlock feels a drop of guilt and a spark of arousal in his gut simultaneously as he thinks that even The Woman would shake her head and wag her finger at him.

He swallows hard and splashes more cold water on his face. So much for being married to his work. Or deemed asexual. Or being remotely tactful about making John aware of the feelings Sherlock has been distantly pondering on concerning himself and John for the past few years.

Sherlock rubs his wet face and grabs a towel to dab himself dry. He can surface a few flashes of memory from his more sober moments of the previous night; grabbing John gruffly by the jacket and slamming him against a wall in the hallway, tonguing his throat and pressing his hips into John; pulling his (stolen, police-issue) handcuffs from his drawer and clamping them around John's wrist as he distracted him with a slow, teasing kiss; tearing John's clothes until buttons popped off, freeing John's erection and gulping it down; flipping John hastily onto his stomach and asserting his legs and knees until he could fuck his fist into John's entrance and replace it soon with his condom-covered erection, lubricant sliding down John's thighs; gripping John tightly and mouthing his skin and pounding into him; twisting and throwing John onto his back, finding a new angle, biting at his chest and hiking his legs up high as the headboard thudded against Sherlock's bedroom wall; taking a break between orgasms to feed John and himself more wine, it dribbling down their chins and John licking it away; fucking John sideways, his hands suspended above his head; the taste of John's ejaculate on his tongue; the fire of cradling John to his chest and feeling John's hands rake down his back…

Okay, so, apparently his memory is getting better as he sobers up. He shivers and tries not to arouse himself again, if that's even possible after so much sexual action last night. Sherlock shakes it off and comes up with a morning plan. Waking John and breaking it to him as gently as possible seems to be the right thing to do.

He uses a clean washcloth and wets it with warm water to bring back to the bed to tend to the aggressive and highly possessive wounds he's left on the good doctor's skin. Some of these bites will be black by tomorrow from bruising. They're only red and angry now, the skin broken on many of them.

John comes into conscious focus and stretches out, coat slipping from him. He groans in pain, feeling a raw burn in his arse, most likely, and becoming aware of the sting the cloth must be having on his marks. He blinks, sees Sherlock, naked and also marked, and is soon bolting upright.

Sherlock retracts the cloth and sighs through his nose. "Easy, John, easy. Don't panic. Breathe."

"Sherlock, what –?" and he glances around, notices all the very evident things Sherlock initially had, and then tries to move his right hand and feels the cuffs, and then he's dropping his face into his palm and nearly sobbing out a groan. "Oh, no, no, no. Please, please tell me there is some slim chance that we didn't so what I think we did last night. Tell me I was mugged or that a dog attacked me while I was drunk because this can't have happened. I feel sick."

Sherlock looks away. "I'm sorry that sex with me is so unbelievable and revolting to you." He clears his throat and stands. "I think I see the keys for those cuffs. I'll fetch them for you." And they are, in fact, on the ground by the door, glimmering a subtle silver in the late morning light.

"Sherlock, don't be like that," John counters quickly. He's sighing when Sherlock returns and silently unlocks the handcuffs. John rubs his wrist and brings his knees closer to his chest subconsciously. "I didn't mean it that way. I have the universe's worst hangover and I didn't want it to go down the way I can tell it had."

The detective spares a glance at the doctor and raises a brow. "Oh?"

John runs a hand through his hair. "Bloody hell. I'm a filthy mess. Would you look at the state of me? – No, no, I already know you have. Why did you have to be so violent? I'm not going anywhere. Jesus, it looks like you took me against me will, but I know that's not true."

"It isn't?" Because something deep and dark in Sherlock was terrified that the sex had been non-consensual. The marks on his own body could be taken as either eagerness or resistance, and seeing as how John was handcuffed…

"No, because I've been wanting to shag you for a while, Sherlock; I just never thought you'd go for it, so I didn't let on at all that I wanted to," John coughs, embarrassed, and looks down. "Erm. Can I have that? I want to… wipe myself down," he requests lowly.

Sherlock hands over the washcloth without comment. He blinks. "How did I not notice?"

"I live with you; I have for years. Which means I've found ways to keep at least some thoughts private," John answers simply, and he shakes his head. "But right now, I really just want to know how my disinterested-in-everybody even got around to fucking me, and so damn hard? You could have been at least a little less rough, you know. I'll be aching for days. And hiding in a lot more layers for a while. Jesus."

Sherlock clear shis throat. "I apologize, John. I don't know what came over me. I honestly can't recall. It looks as thought I tried to devour you."

"It really does," John says, and he attempts to laugh, but then he winces. "Oh. Ow. Okay, no laughing for a while; nothing in me can handle it, especially not when the vibrations shoot down to my arse." He hisses. "Some ice would be good, if you don't mind. This is your fault anyhow, and I have swelling to get down besides soothing my bum."

"Oh. Right," Sherlock says a tad beyond awkwardly and rushes out of the room, returning from the kitchen within minutes. When he comes back, John almost looks smug.

"You owe me, I believe. And you can pay me back by catering to my every whim for the remainder of the day, or you can promise me to get my turn at treating you like this next time, after I've recovered."

And if John notices the immediate flush on Sherlock's pale skin and the twitch of his prick at the thought of the second option, then, well, he is polite enough not to comment on it or reveal his triumph on his face.

But he does say this much: "I think we could both use a good cup of sobering coffee, don't you?"

And for once, Sherlock doesn't mind making it.