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John woke with a mouth like sandpaper, a skull full of artillery, and an empty bed.
Memory returned in vicious flashes. Sherlock and Lestrade, together. A fleeting thing, years ago. Sherlock’s bafflement at John’s fury.
“I fail to see the issue. You’re the town bike, chasing every skirt within pedalling distance.”
“Not the point! You don’t date. Said it wasn’t your area!”
“I said that because you were transparently closeted and would have been excruciatingly uncomfortable with a gay flatmate. Also, it isn’t my area. I’m dreadful at relationships. Ask Lestrade.”
The insult—somewhere between womaniser and coward—had stung. John threw a punch.
Sherlock evaded him with contemptuous ease. After that, things dissolved into shouting, a slammed door, whisky—
Heat. Hands. A hard cock against his hip. Sherlock’s mouth saying, Finally, against his throat.
John groaned and dragged the duvet over his face. He’d assaulted his Sherlock, fucked him and woken up alone. Fuck. Shit. Fuck! He’d ruined it all.
The bedroom door opened.
Sherlock entered carrying two cups of tea and absolutely nothing else. Love bites bloomed across his throat and collarbones. His curls were riotous, his pale body marked by John’s hands, and his smile was bright and tender.
John gaped. Sherlock handed him the tea and bent to kiss his aching forehead.
“Stop thinking, John. It’s distracting.”