Fic: Logical thought
Title: Logical Thought
Author: trillsabells
Beta: jupiter_ash
Rating: PG13
Length: 700 words
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Summary: At least he had ended up in his bed; going out with Sherlock Holmes he was lucky he hadn’t ended up in a jail cell. But no, he could definitely feel soft sheets below him and a warm duvet above him.
Also he was naked.
Right.
Oh fuck.
Oh god, what had he been drinking last night? He had vague images of shot glasses and whisky and glass measuring cylinders for some reason. That couldn’t be right, could it?
Oh god, yeah, Sherlock.
Oh Jesus his stag night.
Oh god his head.
He cracked open his eyes and immediately regretted it, squeezing them shut again
Fucking light like stinging nettles in eye sockets. Too drunk to close his curtains then. At least he had ended up in his bed; going out with Sherlock Holmes he was lucky he hadn’t ended up in a jail cell. But no, he could definitely feel soft sheets below him and a warm duvet above him.
Also he was naked.
Right.
He really had been hammered, hadn’t he? Could at least have stopped at the boxers if he wasn’t going to put on pyjamas but no, nothing. Thanks, drunk John. Mary was probably finding this hilarious. Although it was nice of her to let him sleep in. Strange that she hadn’t woken him up actually. Where was she?
The headache hadn’t receded but he chanced opening his eyes again, wincing one open the tiniest amount before blinking both eyes wide.
Oh shit.
Okay.
No, okay.
Okay.
Right. Let’s think this through logically. That’s what Sherlock was always going on about, wasn’t it? Thinking logically.
Oh god, Sherlock.
No, let’s be logical.
So he was naked. He had been drunk; it’s not the slightest bit surprising that he had stripped off before going to bed. One time, when he was nineteen, he had absinthe for the first time and had ended up streaking through St Paul’s Churchyard. Stripping off in a bedroom in a private, locked house was definitely an up from that. It didn’t mean anything had happened, just like nothing had happened when he had been nineteen, except for some mud in a few awkward places. It was fine.
The fact that he was naked in Sherlock’s bed was fine too. It made sense that they had gone back to Baker Street after the pub. Or pubs. They’d been out together; they probably hadn’t wanted the evening to end. In fact, he vaguely remembered more drinking back at Baker Street and Madonna for some reason. Jesus, what had they been drinking?
Anyway, it made sense and considering how hammered he was it was actually pretty nice of him to spare Mary the trial of mopping up after him. And given that he was already at Baker Street it made sense that, when he got sleepy, he would have climbed into the nearest bed. He would have been more surprised if he had managed to navigate the stairs up to his old room. If there was even a bed up there anymore. No, ending up in Sherlock’s bed was the most logical eventuality when you thought it through properly.
And it made sense that Sherlock was sharing the bed too. It was Sherlock’s bed after all; who was he to throw his best friend out of his own bed? They had both been sozzled, so when they both got sleepy they had both climbed into the nearest bed. It just so happened that it was the same bed. See, simple.
And yes, Sherlock was naked too, but how many times had he been in the flat while Sherlock had wandered around in just a sheet? For all he knew that was how Sherlock slept. Why on earth should he expect Sherlock to change his ways while legless when he in his own drunken state couldn’t even keep his boxers on. It didn’t mean anything had happened, just that they had both been really trolleyed last night.
Okay, so there appeared to be dried cum on his stomach, but that didn’t prove anything. When he was single he had often wanked before sleep; it helped him drift off faster. With the alcohol lowering his inhibitions he may have done it automatically. Sherlock might not have even been in the bed at that point. All it suggested was that he owed Sherlock an apology for the mess.
And there could be lots of explanations for the pain in his backside. He had been sloshed, he could have fallen over.
And as for the stickiness between his thighs…
…
Shitting bloody bugger-fuck.
Author: trillsabells
Beta: jupiter_ash
Rating: PG13
Length: 700 words
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Summary: At least he had ended up in his bed; going out with Sherlock Holmes he was lucky he hadn’t ended up in a jail cell. But no, he could definitely feel soft sheets below him and a warm duvet above him.
Also he was naked.
Right.
Oh fuck.
Oh god, what had he been drinking last night? He had vague images of shot glasses and whisky and glass measuring cylinders for some reason. That couldn’t be right, could it?
Oh god, yeah, Sherlock.
Oh Jesus his stag night.
Oh god his head.
He cracked open his eyes and immediately regretted it, squeezing them shut again
Fucking light like stinging nettles in eye sockets. Too drunk to close his curtains then. At least he had ended up in his bed; going out with Sherlock Holmes he was lucky he hadn’t ended up in a jail cell. But no, he could definitely feel soft sheets below him and a warm duvet above him.
Also he was naked.
Right.
He really had been hammered, hadn’t he? Could at least have stopped at the boxers if he wasn’t going to put on pyjamas but no, nothing. Thanks, drunk John. Mary was probably finding this hilarious. Although it was nice of her to let him sleep in. Strange that she hadn’t woken him up actually. Where was she?
The headache hadn’t receded but he chanced opening his eyes again, wincing one open the tiniest amount before blinking both eyes wide.
Oh shit.
Okay.
No, okay.
Okay.
Right. Let’s think this through logically. That’s what Sherlock was always going on about, wasn’t it? Thinking logically.
Oh god, Sherlock.
No, let’s be logical.
So he was naked. He had been drunk; it’s not the slightest bit surprising that he had stripped off before going to bed. One time, when he was nineteen, he had absinthe for the first time and had ended up streaking through St Paul’s Churchyard. Stripping off in a bedroom in a private, locked house was definitely an up from that. It didn’t mean anything had happened, just like nothing had happened when he had been nineteen, except for some mud in a few awkward places. It was fine.
The fact that he was naked in Sherlock’s bed was fine too. It made sense that they had gone back to Baker Street after the pub. Or pubs. They’d been out together; they probably hadn’t wanted the evening to end. In fact, he vaguely remembered more drinking back at Baker Street and Madonna for some reason. Jesus, what had they been drinking?
Anyway, it made sense and considering how hammered he was it was actually pretty nice of him to spare Mary the trial of mopping up after him. And given that he was already at Baker Street it made sense that, when he got sleepy, he would have climbed into the nearest bed. He would have been more surprised if he had managed to navigate the stairs up to his old room. If there was even a bed up there anymore. No, ending up in Sherlock’s bed was the most logical eventuality when you thought it through properly.
And it made sense that Sherlock was sharing the bed too. It was Sherlock’s bed after all; who was he to throw his best friend out of his own bed? They had both been sozzled, so when they both got sleepy they had both climbed into the nearest bed. It just so happened that it was the same bed. See, simple.
And yes, Sherlock was naked too, but how many times had he been in the flat while Sherlock had wandered around in just a sheet? For all he knew that was how Sherlock slept. Why on earth should he expect Sherlock to change his ways while legless when he in his own drunken state couldn’t even keep his boxers on. It didn’t mean anything had happened, just that they had both been really trolleyed last night.
Okay, so there appeared to be dried cum on his stomach, but that didn’t prove anything. When he was single he had often wanked before sleep; it helped him drift off faster. With the alcohol lowering his inhibitions he may have done it automatically. Sherlock might not have even been in the bed at that point. All it suggested was that he owed Sherlock an apology for the mess.
And there could be lots of explanations for the pain in his backside. He had been sloshed, he could have fallen over.
And as for the stickiness between his thighs…
…
Shitting bloody bugger-fuck.