SOMETHING GLORIOUS NO DOUBT
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Sunlight had no cause to be that bright, honestly. Not when you were waking up with the worst hangover you’d had in years, a hangover so bad that it nearly matched several of the mornings when he’d woken up covered in his own vomit and delirious from the amount of cocaine he’d injected into his body the night before. To have the sun already causing pain by beating at his closed eyelids simply wasn’t fair, and he was not happy about it.
With a groan, Sherlock rolled over onto his side and pushed himself into a sitting position, his head spinning wildly as he did so. There was a brief moment of panic as it felt like the room would spin out of control and the contents of his stomach would make a sudden appearance all at the same time, but with several deep breaths the moment passed. Sherlock still did not want to open his eyes, did not want to admit to himself that this was happening.
How had this happened, anyway? How on earth had he allowed himself to get into this state again after so many years? His memories of the night before were distressingly scattered, beginning to fall apart around the time the first bottle of champagne had been opened in celebration of successfully catching a murderer that had been at large for twenty years. After that, nothing. Nothing but a blur of colors and snippets of memory that blended together into a picture that made no sense. Because it made no sense for him to vaguely recall a shirt flying into the air, or handcuffs being clumsily dragged out of a bedside drawer. Ridiculous.
Well, there was nothing for it then. If he was to figure out what had happened to him last night – and he would figure it out – he would have to brave the sun and open his eyes. He groaned again as he peeled his eyes open, hating himself more with every millimeter, until he was blinking blearily and looking around his room for clues.
What.
Well that made no sense. Why were there two empty glasses on the floor of his bedroom? And why were John’s trousers carelessly discarded next to the empty bottles as if they had every right to be there. Dawning horror began to work its way into Sherlock’s clouded brain, and his eyes opened wide with shock as he tried to process this information. Headache forgotten, he jumped out of bed and whirled around only to have his worst fears confirmed.
John was in his bed. Or, to put it more accurately, John was handcuffed to his bed, passed out and entirely naked except for the shirt that had not quite made it off his shoulders. The carnage of their night was littered around him – more empty bottles, a bottle of lubricant, empty condom wrappers clearly thrown aside in drunken, careless haste. There was a ring of blood around the handcuff from where John had pulled against the restraint, more blood around his mouth, and nearly countless bruises, bite marks, and scrapes covering his body. Sherlock suddenly felt the sting of the scratch and bite marks covering his shoulders and back, and the soreness of muscles that had not been strenuously used in years. As he looked at John, still blissfully unaware of what he would wake up to, Sherlock felt his mind begin to spin out of control in horror, confusion, and no small amount of remembered arousal.
What the fuck happened last night?
ZOMFG! WOAH! ART AND FIC? I NEED MORE! PLEASE? WITH… EVERYTHING! ON TOP?
Seconded. So very very seconded. ^^^
Lady Karasu 