"Fine." Reaching for the bottle, John pours scotch into Sherlock's glass, then tops off his own. "I dare you to tell me whether you've ever had any form of sex with anyone before."

"No," Sherlock confesses, slumping back in his armchair. "Does that bother you?"

"Do I look bothered?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Sherlock says, dropping his gaze to John's groin pointedly.

John doesn't need to look down to know there's a sizable bulge tenting the crotch of his jeans. Sherlock's eyes flick back up, and John just flashes a cocky grin, wets his lower lip hungrily.

"I dare you to kiss me, John Watson," Sherlock goads.

John nods, knocks back another mouthful of scotch, and then sets his glass on the side-table. As he pushes himself out of his armchair, his stomach lurches and the world seems to swoop around him, and he squeezes his eyes shut, struggling to regain his bearings. Then he's clambering into Sherlock's lap gracelessly, one knee insinuating itself between Sherlock's spread legs, the other foot bracing on the floor beside one of Sherlock's giant, shiny black dress shoes. He seizes Sherlock's face roughly and pulls him forward into a demanding kiss.

It's nothing at all like kissing Mary. Sherlock's mouth tastes terrible — a blend of scotch, cigarettes, stomach acid, and curry — but his lips are soft and pliant against John's. Emboldened, John shoves his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, feels Sherlock's shy away. John prods at it once, twice, three times, and finally Sherlock gets the message. Curving a large hand around the back of John's skull, he pulls John toward him, deepening the kiss. They continue for several minutes, filling the room with wet, smacking noises, until at last they pull apart.

"I dare you to let me suck your knob," John says breathlessly.

"If you want," Sherlock says, a little sheepishly. "I think I'd like that." His eyes seem dazed as they hold John's, his lips moist, red, and slightly swollen.

In an instant, John is on his knees between Sherlock's wide-spread legs, fumbling open his zip. "Lift your arse up," he instructs, hooking his fingers under Sherlock's waistband. Sherlock complies, and John shimmies his trousers down his thighs, followed by his pants.

Sherlock's cock is smooth and pale, rising from a thatch of dark, wiry curls. John wraps his left hand around it, feels its warm, pulsing heat against his palm.

It's been too long since I did this.

"Oh," Sherlock gasps when John dips his head and takes the glistening glans into his mouth.

Lips folding over his teeth, John teases Sherlock's frenulum, drawing a baritone moan. Sherlock cups the back of his head encouragingly. John hums, then lets Sherlock's length slide down his throat, simultaneously gliding his hand up from where it's curled around the base. Another moan escapes Sherlock, loud and raw and desperate, and John begins bobbing his head.

"Oh, God, John," Sherlock whines. "I never knew."

Flicking his gaze up, John drinks in the sight of Sherlock's ruined, beet-red face. He gives Sherlock's bollocks a playful squeeze with his free hand, bobs his head faster, until Sherlock's cock is sliding in and out of his mouth with slick, obscene sounds.

"John," Sherlock says, urgent and rough. "John, I'm...I'm going to..."

And then Sherlock is coming, wailing insensibly, his hips jerking off the seat of his armchair. Hot, bitter semen spurts across John's tongue, momentarily erasing the lingering tang of scotch.

John pulls away a moment later, wiping his mouth on the soft, plaid cotton of his sleeve. "I dare you to let me fuck you," John says, tilting his gaze up at Sherlock. Need is boiling through his blood, clear and sharp even through the alcohol swaddling his brain like a thick, warm blanket.

"S'not your turn," Sherlock slurs, flapping his hand dismissively.

"Just the tip," John presses. "Just let me feel you. Just a little bit. Hmm?"

Sherlock looks at John thoughtfully for a moment. At last, he smiles and nods, tells him, "Okay."