Kleptomaniac (A Johnlock Fanfiction) [2015 Wattys Award Winner]

Chapter Sixteen

There is nothing on earth quite like alcohol.

It burns a little. Not like fire; like... like happiness. It feels happy. And it makes the world look a little less harsh around the edges. Paper that's a little torn. You can feel the fibers brush against your fingertips, and you feel a little closer to the trees, the clean white blurriness of it all.

The world becomes a painting, a piece of Van Gogh, imprecise and unprecedented. John could stumble around the London slush for ages - spinning a texture of worn army boots into the remains of of the snow on the sidewalks, just living as that sad, torn soldier. Because, in that moment, with that bottle in his hand - it tastes good. It tastes like... happiness. Like he just... doesn't... care.

His lips are preening senselessly into a cavity at the base of Sherlock's neck; a sore mark of ownership forming right beneath the collar of his shirt. Sherlock is squirming and groping and whining, a red tint to his cheeks that John has never seen before. Is it John's drunkenness? Or is it Sherlock's?

Sherlock, as far as John is aware, is a goody two shoes. Never drank, never smoked, never did drugs (John scoffs to himself; as if), and now... John is getting him tipsy. Drunk, daresay. He's spinning, and spinning, and so pretty and nice and John just wants to bite into his neck like it's a piece of Salisbury steak.

"Jesus, John," Sherlock giggles as John pushes himself into Sherlock's arms, force feeding him those alcohol tainted lips like they're the only taste he's ever known. Mumbles of appreciation rustle through him, a warm whisper ghosting across his tongue. It sounds like, "So, how fucked up are you?"

Sherlock smiles in his intoxicated state, a grin shining across his teeth like Cheshire cats and clowns. "Me? Oh, very."

"Oh?" John laughs, a little chuckle escaping his lips. "Well, tell me. After I'm done with you." John starts sucking at his neck again, bruising the skin underneath almost angrily. Sherlock keens in distress, putting his legs tightly around John's sides. He pushes John into his groin, letting a drawn out moan escape, and then begins - John is shocked - rutting.

"How drunk are you?" John slurs, kissing Sherlock harder, pressing his erection into him further, and Sherlock laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs, and it sounds like music and kisses and moans and just... God. He's fucking pretty.

"You want me?" John whispers, kissing the dip underneath his jawline. Sherlock mumbles a little "mhmm" to John, who smiles in appreciation and dips his hands in Sherlock's pants.

"My dad would be absolutely seething," Sherlock says as he pushes into John's hands.

"And, so...?" John stops kissing Sherlock for a moment, long enough to see his eyes. They look really... pretty. And blue.

John begins giggling.

"So, nothing," Sherlock chuckles, kissing John's neck. "He'd just be..." he palms John's groin and squeezes, accenting each word, "really - really - mad."

"Really, hmm?" John nibbles at Sherlock's lip. "Would he think you were a horny, dirty bastard? Because," John nimbly undoes his shirt buttons one by one, each one popping open noisily, "that's what I think, pretty boy."

"Uh-huh," Sherlock keens, riding hard onto John's palms.

A piercing, shrill ring erupts from Sherlock's phone, which John doesn't respond well to. "Don't touch it," he whines, pushing Sherlock back into the couch as he bites at his Adam's apple. Sherlock looks over at the phone momentarily, a lazy expression written across his brows.

"Bu..." his protest is cut off by a sudden air grabbing kiss, and it steals all the words out of his mouth as the persistent phone dies to a stop.

But then... it begins ringing again. And it seems louder, more urgent, so Sherlock pushes John off and grabs for the phone in one swift mention, which John takes as a rejection and slinks back onto the other side of the couch.