Playing Dirty

Chapter 1

"That was never-ending." Sherlock was complaining the moment they were over the threshold of 221B, before the door was even closed. He took off his scarf with snippy movements, oozing irritation. "John."

"Mmm?" John was more than a little tipsy, and therefore completely immune to Sherlock being an arse. He was currently trying to maintain his balance as he removed his jacket and his shoes at the same time, but the wall he was bracing himself on kept moving.

"Why did you make me do that?"

"Didn't make you do anything," John mumbled, completely without affect. He dove for the couch like an Olympic swimmer, but was notably less graceful.

Sherlock sighed and crossed to the kitchen. "I'll make tea. You're completely pissed."

"Lestrade," John said by way of explanation. He was sprawled out on his back on the couch, which meant that Sherlock was going to have to do some rearranging of legs to commandeer his favored corner.

Sherlock didn't bother responding. He waited a long while for the kettle to boil, then poured their cups and prepared them in the kitchen rather than bring the whole setup into the sitting room. He made sure to give himself an unhealthy dose of sugar to get the taste of lager out of his mouth. Vile.

He brought John his cup, setting it down on the coffee table the way it was. The nice thing about John pissed was that he didn't moan about such trivialities as saucers or coasters. Then he nudged John's feet over by displacing them with his bottom. John bent his knees without complaint and allowed Sherlock to settle in.

"What were you two whispering about anyway? Like a couple of schoolboys," Sherlock said disdainfully.

What John heard was not disdain, but jealousy. Once upon a time he would have missed that and this conversation would have immediately devolved into defensiveness and petty quarreling. Now he knew that this was just Sherlock's obscure way of expressing his possessiveness over John. He was a bit like a cat; heaven forbid John should pet anyone else in the room. Or um...well, he was pretty sure that he shouldn't express it that way out loud.

John regarded Sherlock for a moment with a look that suggested he didn't think Sherlock could handle the contents of his conversation with the DI, which rankled Sherlock. Now he had to know. He raised an eyebrow and exuded annoyance.

"Not your area," John said opaquely. "You wouldn't want to know."

"I think I have conveyed quite clearly, in that I asked about it, that I would want to know."

John slouched down comfortably, his toes prodding at Sherlock's thigh, and hummed the pleased little laugh he seemed to reserve for times of absolute drunkenness. Sherlock found it endearing, but he would certainly never tell John that.

"What's so amusing?"

"Was just trying to imagine how you'd react if Lestrade'd tried to have that conversation with you," John said, grinning dopily and pointing at him as if clarification was needed for "you."

"Perhaps I could help you puzzle that out," Sherlock over-enunciated. "You're being cryptic. It's irritating."

"Al'right then. He and his wife are separated, yeah? Seeing other people. So Greg—"

"Who?"

John sighed. "Lestrade. You want me to tell you or not, you prat?"

Sherlock waved a hand with a distinct air of, if you must, even though he'd seemed a hair trigger away from using the rack on John just moments earlier.

"He was telling me this woman he's been seeing is a dirty talker. I can't even repeat what she said to him." John was absolutely gleeful.

Sherlock huffed a sigh and rolled his eyes. "Is that all? How banal and crass. I suppose I should have expected no less."

John blinked at him, one corner of his mouth quirking into a skeptical smile. "Oh, you're so above all that, are you? Never had anyone talk dirty to you in bed, then?"

Sherlock had been sipping on his tea, and had to stop short in order not to choke at the direct nature of John's question. For a moment he floundered, opening his mouth and finding he had nothing to say. He haughtily avoided meeting John's eyes.

John struggled up on his elbows to get a better look at his friend. "Sherlock Holmes," he said, the wonderment clear in his tone. "I do believe you're blushing."

Sherlock scowled. "Nonsense. You're drunk and unobservant."

John flopped back down heavily, confident in his assessment of Sherlock's discomfort. "You didn't answer the question."

"No, no one has ever—of course I haven't," he snapped.

John, at his most insufferable, picked up his teacup and brought it slowly to his mouth, thinking.

There were several long moments of silence before Sherlock practically erupted. "Oh, spit it out!"

John set his cup back down and drew himself up to sitting, though he leaned heavily on his left hand and winced a little. His shoulder was playing up then, despite the alcohol. Sherlock was not particularly sympathetic at the moment.

John clapped his hands on his thighs as though reaching a decision. "I'm going to do an experiment," he said as he stood and turned to give Sherlock an almost ominous once-over.

"Experiment?"

"Yes."

"You are conducting an experiment?"

"Learned from the best." John had already turned away. Sherlock watched him mount the stairs to his room, loathe to admit that he was suddenly filled with a niggling sense of trepidation.

~~~