Chapter Text
John Watson has a set of rules when it came to fucking people. There were only two rules, actually, because when your sister is an alcoholic and complete strangers want to kill you because of a certain consulting detective’s antics, you realize that two rules are all you can afford to have. During the fifteen years in which John had been sexually active, he never broke them. Sure, he may have toed the line a couple of times, had a couple of wild shags here and there, but he never broke the rules.
1. Don’t have sex with anyone when you’re drunk.
Bottom’s up, he grimly thinks to himself. This is, what, his sixth, seventh glass that hour? His conscience is chiding him for drinking so much alcohol, reminding him over and over that he could get alcohol poisoning, that he was fucking up his liver, that he would eventually drink himself into alcoholism, all because of that bastard. That perfect, flawless, snide, condescending bastard.
Then again, perhaps John shouldn’t have kissed him.
2. Don’t have sex with anyone you just met.
“You look like you’ve just gone through several circles of Hell.” A shrill, accented voice startles John out of his beer-induced stupor.
John scrutinizes the man who appeared in front of him, bathed in a warm red glow supplied from the pub’s lighting. He’s clad in a maroon dress shirt and dark pants, much like a certain annoying flatmate. Clipped dark hair caresses his pale face, which contains two shrewd eyes looking at John.
“Can you tell me which circle I’m currently in, then?” John asks sarcastically.
The man laughs (Rather maniacally, John thinks hazily) and replies, “Judging by how long you’ve sat in the corner and how many beers you’ve had, I’d say third circle. Gluttony. Though I wouldn’t mind being with you in the second,” He quips, winking at John.
Though he is piss-drunk, John is able to dredge up memories of a relatively dull English class he had taken when he was fifteen. His class was forced to read Divine Comedy and painstakingly analyze each and every line. The first circle was Limbo, the third was Gluttony, and the second was--what was the second? Finally, the answer comes to him: Lust. Oh God, this man is flirting with him.
The man holds out his hand and says, “The name’s Jim.”
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Looking back on this encounter years from now, John recalls how at that moment, he had no idea whatsoever that he’d be fucking what he thought was a complete stranger, a little less than an hour later.
But life has a funny way of working out and so it happens that John Watson is thrusting his cock into Jim Moriarty in a posh flat located in Kensington. They both come with shouts, moaning ribaldrously, and finally falling asleep, their limbs entangled in one another. John sleeps off quickly but Jim is awake for much longer, running his fingers up and down John’s body, softly murmuring threats that sound like pillow talk, as he claims his new prize, his new lover, his new John.
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Sherlock is on edge. It has been seven hours and fifty-one minutes since John had banged 221B’s door shut, obviously in a hurry to leave their flat. Where could he be? Sherlock had called and checked every possible location: Angelo’s, St. Bart’s, Lestrade. He even called one of John’s ex-girlfriends (Jeanette, the teacher, Sherlock deduced, by her tired voice and the sound of a pen viciously grading papers), only to receive a snide response instructing him to do something with a shovel that was anatomically impossible.
It occurs to Sherlock while he is ravaging the flat in hopes of finding a distraction from John, that he could call his pompous brother and demand the location of a certain flatmate. This notion is immediately shoved to the back of his mind, and he continues knocking experiments over and carving the periodic table on the kitchen table with a pocket knife.
Pad, pad, pad. Mrs. Hudson is coming up the stairs, in her fuzzy slippers. John gave them to her for her birthday.
She knocks cautiously once, twice, and then three times on the door, and when she receives no response apart from a loud crash, lets herself in. She scans the mess that presents itself before her with the affection and amusement only a mother could have. Liquids of all sorts spilled on the floor, papers scattered everywhere, an armchair knocked over, and the eye of the hurricane, Sherlock, is perched upon a table next to his precious violin, inspecting his bow.
“Sherlock, dear, don’t you know what the time is?” Mrs. Hudson inquires groggily. She has dark circles underneath her eyes, and unsuccessfully tries to repress a yawn. Her hair sticks up in all directions, not unlike Sherlock’s. “I’ve been up all night, because of you barging around upstairs. Normally you’re up at all sorts of hours, but you never make such horrid noises.”
Sherlock sighs ostentatiously. Satisfied with his bow, he picks up his violin with trembling, spidery fingers, taking care not to harm it in any way. “John’s left me, Mrs. Hudson. Nothing of any importance.”
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Where the hell am I? , John thinks, as he wakes with a start. He looks around and sees a window. The blinds are closed, but he can tell that it is dark outside. A digital clock catches his attention, informing him that it is currently 3:17 A.M. As he sits up, trying to recollect his memories of the night before, he discovers that he is naked. No shirt, no jacket, no underwear-- naked. Combined with this new information and the sticky sheets in which he had been sprawled across moments before, a growing horror eclipses him as he realizes that he’d just fucked someone. He doesn’t even know who he fucked. It could have been a prostitute off the street, one of his exes, or God forbid, Sherlock Holmes.
He tries to get out of the enormous bed, but his muscles start screaming at him like an unpleasant gym coach he once encountered in primary school. Gritting his teeth, he swings his legs off the side of the bed and tries walking. Rubbing his eyes several times, he is finally able to clearly take in his surroundings. The bedroom has a sleek, modern look to it. A shelf is precariously stuffed with all sorts of books; it’s too dark for John to be able to read any of the titles. His feet are on cold marble that sends shivers up his spine. For some inexplicable reason, John Watson feels trapped.
Scanning the room a second time, he sees a door. Its knob gleams in the darkness.
Freedom.