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Better Than

 

Sherlock smelt it before anything else: the sharp, pungent, almost skunk-like aroma of dried cannabis. He smirked into his experiment before shutting off the Bunsen burner and creeping carefully down the stairs, automatically contorting his steps so as not to hit the loose and squeaky floorboards. He snuck up to the door of 221A in admirable silence and eased the handle around as slowly as he could, feeling the catch give before gently pushing it open.

Mrs Hudson was at the hob, apron primly around her hips with her back to the door. She was cheerfully grinding away at a rather impressive chunk of dried marijuana while taking frequent breaks to stir at a small sauce pot that appeared to contain a considerable block of butter.

“OG Kush?” Sherlock rumbled from right behind her left ear.

Mrs Hudson shrieked and nearly dropped the grinder. As it was, Sherlock had incredible reflexes, and he caught it with the sacrifice of only a few pulverized grains. The butter-covered wooden spoon, however, was a lost cause entirely.

“Sherlock Holmes, you’ll be the death of me!” Mrs Hudson panted, clutching at her chest in a move that was far more dramatic than medically necessary.

Sherlock favored her with one of his real smiles before handing back the little metal grinder. She took it without the smallest trace of chagrin, and fixed him with a knowing eye. He feigned innocence and merely peered over her shoulder as she went about adding the fine green grindings to the now melted butter. She neatly plucked another spoon from the drying rack and stirred the grains in until the butter began turning a hazy green color. She took the butter mixture off the direct heat and set about cleaning up, shooing Sherlock away as he reached forward to dip a finger into the butter.

“Sherlock, dear, do stop messing about, will you? You’ll burn your precious fingertips, and don’t tell me you aren’t aware of that fact. I know perfectly well you’re only down here for my fudge, which won’t be ready until tomorrow evening at the earliest.”

Sherlock pouted a bit, but pulled his hands back, narrowing his eyes at her before smirking again. “There are other ways to achieve a marijuana-induced high, Mrs Hudson,” he said slowly.

She tried to look scolding for all of ten seconds before her face broke into a conspiratorial, girlish grin and she leaned forward to whisper, “John won’t make a fuss, will he, dear?”

Sherlock leaned in as well and murmured, “He’s still hours to go at the surgery, Mrs Hudson,” with a wink.

: :

Forty five minutes and half a joint later, and the two of them were sprawled out on Mrs Hudson’s sitting room sofa, red-eyed and loose limbed with a veritable mountain of snacks piled onto the coffee table before them.

Sherlock was licking melted chocolate off his thumb with relish as he’d just devoured his fourth Hobnob in as many minutes. Mrs Hudson was munching her way steadily through a packet of water crackers slathered in Marmite. She had turned on past episodes of that positively wretched time travel show that John favored on Sunday evenings, and Sherlock found himself unable to look away as the impossibly disproportionate blue box spun unrealistically through what BBC One evidently passed for time and space.

“Oh, I just love Rose,” Mrs Hudson sighed happily, watching raptly as the crass blonde chav positively mooned after the chap in the pinstripe suit.

“Utter waste of time,” Sherlock grumbled, though he was secretly riveted.

Mrs Hudson apparently wasn’t fooled. “Oh, should I switch the channel, then, dear?” she asked with a knowing grin, reaching for the remote.

“No, it’s fine,” Sherlock sighed, trying to sound magnanimous and missing by about a mile. “Although I don’t understand this Doctor’s motivations at all. He has a perfectly sound analysis of human behavior, keeps himself useful but distant, and yet he pines after this one utterly pointless female as though she’s some sort of special exception.”

Mrs Hudson giggled a bit to herself in a far too suggestive way. It got Sherlock’s attention immediately.

“What,” he demanded, sitting up and pinning her with as much of as an intimidating stare as he could muster. Granted, with his eyes red and lazy, it was most likely missing its usual potency, but that was neither here nor there.

“Oh nothing, dear,” she dismissed airily, pouring them both another cup of Darjeeling and smiling infuriatingly to herself. Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, flopping back down into the cushions and setting himself up for quite the strop.

“It’s just that you and the Tenth Doctor seem to have a lot in common, that’s all.”

Sherlock tried to ignore the bait, for that’s exactly what it was, but his inhibitions were significantly lowered and the question was out of his mouth before his usual filters could stop it: “And how’s that?”

She smiled fondly over at him and patted his ankle, which was suddenly and inexplicably resting across her knees. It felt heavenly, and Sherlock nearly purred as he tipped his head backwards in bliss. She chuckled again as he rubbed his head against the cushions, little tingles of unmitigated pleasure shooting across his scalp with every soft caress of fabric.

“That’ll be the indica,” she said perceptively, and Sherlock hummed in agreement.

Slack as he was at the moment, though, Sherlock Holmes was not a man to be dissuaded easily. “What do I have in common with an imaginary science fiction character?” he prompted.

“Oh, just that you both think you’re so much smarter than the rest of us mere mortals, and yet you both have a soft spot for one particular, seemingly unimportant individual.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up so fast his neck cracked, which sent Mrs Hudson into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. Sherlock huffed and waited it out before concentrating, and stating loudly and plainly: “John is not unimportant. He is a doctor, and a soldier, and the greatest, most wonderful man I know.”

Mrs Hudson’s face softened into such a look of sheer soppy romanticism that Sherlock nearly expected there to be actual hearts in her irises.

"The thing," Sherlock started, his brain going fuzzy for a moment. He reached for his tea and took a deep gulp before wiping his chin on the back of his hand. "The thing about John is..." 

Mrs Hudson looked up at him and started giggling, seemingly unable to help herself as she clutched at her stomach and leaned back into the sofa cushions. Sherlock felt his face twitch, and he tried to contain the rumbling chuckles as they spilled forth from his throat, but it was useless. 

"The thing about John...?" she prompted after a few minutes of breathless laughter. 

"Ah! Yes," Sherlock sighed, reaching for the ashtray and collecting the expertly rolled joint, "The thing about John is..." he brought the lighter up to the end of the paper, took a drag and held it for a moment, feeling his chest expand with the fragrant smoke. "He's..." he exhaled long and low. "He's fucking brilliant."

Mrs Hudson let loose a bark of high, girlish laughter. "You mean he's brilliant at fucking, dear," she corrected, reaching for the bag of crisps on the table. 

Sherlock felt his cheeks flush, but his face split into a sly grin. "I wouldn't know, Hudders." He sighed a bit wistfully, "I really wouldn't know."

"Oh psh," she said around a mouthful of fried potato, "He's sweet on you so hard he gives me toothache at times, love."

Sherlock couldn't help it: he started laughing, and once he started, he couldn't seem to stop. Mrs Hudson caught sight of his face and broke out into giggles again, nearly choking on the crisps in her mouth before she swallowed hastily and took another swig of water, then toppled into fresh peals of laughter. Sherlock caught sight of her joyful face, bright red with tears of mirth streaming down her cheeks and felt himself double over with fresh chuckles. 

"Oh Christ," he finally managed, wheezing and entirely undignified. He hadn't felt this loose in ages, and he didn't even seem to mind that his brain was lazy and slow. 

Mrs Hudson hiccupped into stillness a few moments later, small chuckles still making their way around her breath until she finally reached for her own mug of tea, draining it before fixing him with a fond stare. 

"Honestly, though, Sherlock," she said, rooting around the sofa for the discarded pack of Jammy Dodgers, "If you two haven't shagged yet, it's not for lack of wanting. On either side."

Sherlock felt his chest clench suddenly, as though she had physically punched him in the ribs. He must have looked about as disconcerted because she began clucking at him immediately: “Oh don’t put that face on, dearie, he’s just as mad about you as you are about him, I wager. Honestly, it’s a miracle you two get anything done with all the pheromones clogging the air up there sometimes.”

Sherlock spluttered for a moment before sniggering and breaking out into another round of unstoppable chuckles. Once he’d calmed down enough, he sighed heavily and re-lit the joint, passing it over to Mrs Hudson once he’d taken a long drag. “John isn’t like that, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock exhaled, the melancholy note back in his tone and causing Mrs Hudson to tut again. “He’s entirely het… hetero… heterosexual,” Sherlock finally managed.

“Bollocks,” Mrs Hudson pronounced, and joined him in peals of renewed, incredulous laughter.

“What the bloody hell is going on in here?”

Both Sherlock and Mrs Hudson jumped at the harsh tone, for once completely and honestly startled. John stood framed in the doorway, the perfect picture of massive disapproval. His nose was wrinkled in such an adorable way that Sherlock couldn’t help but lean towards him, and nearly fell of the sofa when gravity suddenly caught up with him. Mrs Hudson doubled over in laughter and was absolutely no help.

“Jesus Christ,” John grumbled, one hand over his eyes and rubbing furiously at his brow. Sherlock fought the overwhelming urge to go over there and rub it for him, though it was an admittedly stupid plan. The urge to touch John was startlingly strong, and Sherlock employed every bit of his rapidly slackening self-restraint to keep himself firmly planted on the sagging cushions.

John shook his head after a moment and moved towards the kitchen, opening all the windows as wide as he could as he went. Sherlock became abruptly aware of the low haze of smoke that hung suspended in the air, and wondered how long it had been since the butter had been cooling.

John was unexpectedly in front of them, all sturdy displeasure and frustrated annoyance and familiar, wonderful exasperation, and it was marvelously beautiful to behold. He looked like a small, vengeful god: all fisted hands on his hips and thunderous expression, and Sherlock wanted to worship him for the rest of his atheistic days.

“Oh, John,” Mrs Hudson wheezed, clutching at her abdomen and shaking her head affectionately. “I am so sorry. Sherlock and I got a bit… carried away.” Sherlock snorted, which kick-started another fit of giggles from Mrs Hudson. John just shook his head with a rueful smile, but relaxed marginally. Sherlock took it as a concession.

He reached forward and put his hand on John’s hip, immediately fascinated by the texture of his trousers. They were so soft with a bit of an almost indecipherable weave and Sherlock ran his fingertips up along the seam to the waistband before John abruptly pulled himself away, wide eyed and stiff.

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?” he demanded, his face flushing a flattering pink.

“You’re so soft, John,” Sherlock said and leaned forward enough to catch the man around the waist. He buried his face in John’s jumper-covered belly and breathed him in. “God, you smell good,” he murmured, rubbing his nose across John’s abdomen in delicate circles.

“Sherlock…” John’s voice sounded wary, but his hands landed on Sherlock’s shoulders and he didn’t exactly push him away, so Sherlock continued to nuzzle against John’s stomach, content to bury himself there and never leave again. John’s fingers flexed against his shoulders, and Sherlock moaned softly, the touch feeling simultaneously wonderfully comforting and positively electric.

“John,” Sherlock rumbled, his lips catching on a particular strand of cable knit. He was suddenly aware that his hands had drifted downwards and were most definitely groping two handfuls of John’s unsurprisingly luscious arse.

Mrs Hudson’s knowing laughter was tinkling in his peripherals, and Sherlock knew he should stop, should put some kind of distance between himself and John, or he might do something entirely unforgivable in his intoxicated state, but it was just so wonderfully warm and comfortable where he was, and he couldn’t be bothered to dislodge himself. He merely huffed into the wool beneath his lips and felt a jolt shoot through John’s frame at the action. He grinned slyly to himself and did it again, exhaling a slow, hot stream of air through the many layers of John’s clothing and onto his stomach.

“Alright, Sherlock,” John said above him, and his voice was inexplicably husky. “That’s enough, now. Let’s get you up into bed.”

Sherlock didn’t budge. His hands tightened on John’s arsecheeks and pulled him closer, burrowing his face into John’s diaphragm and shaking his head back and forth. “Don’t want to go to bed. It’s barely half three.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed, and the familiar tone of fond exasperation was back, “It’s six forty-five.”

That startled him enough to lift his head, which John took immediate advantage of, stepping cleanly back a pace and disentangling Sherlock’s wayward limbs.

“Oh dear,” Mrs Hudson sighed from the other end of the couch. “Time does get away from you in this state, doesn’t it?”

“It tends to, yeah,” John muttered sardonically, shooting Mrs Hudson a look of distinct disapproval.

Mrs Hudson seemed unperturbed. “Ah well. It’s a good thing we have you, John, dear.”

Sherlock dislodged his legs from Mrs Hudson’s lap and swung himself into a sitting position, swaying a little when the room seemed to bow in on itself for a moment. John rolled his eyes and stepped forward to help him stand, sliding an arm around his waist and hoisting him to his feet.

“Christ,” John complained softly. “You’re heavier than you look.”

“Come now, John,” Sherlock drawled and leaned sideways to inhale the concentrated scent of John behind his ear. He smiled when he felt John shudder at the movement. “You’re stronger than you look.”

John sighed and steered him towards the door, ducking out from under his arm and steadying him with two solid hands on Sherlock’s hips. “Do you need any help, Mrs H?” John asked over his shoulder, reaching down to grab at Sherlock’s discarded dressing gown where it lay sprawled across an armchair.

“Oh, I’ll be just fine, Doctor Watson. Thank you, dear,” Mrs Hudson grinned. “You just take care of poor Sherlock there, and I’ll be up later with a spot of tea.”

“No need, Mrs Hudson. I’ll take it from here,” John replied with another wry grin.

Sherlock was getting impatient, braced as he was against the sitting room wall with John’s hand burning a slow hole through the small of his back. He huffed and glanced over his shoulder, shooting Mrs Hudson a wink before demanding loudly, “Take me to bed, John!”

John flushed a hot crimson as Mrs Hudson broke into another wave of cheerful giggles. He shot Sherlock an exasperated look before firmly pushing him through the door towards the stairs.

“Have a pleasant night, boys!” Mrs Hudson called after them as the door swung closed.

John groaned softly, but kept his hand low on Sherlock’s back as he directed him up the seventeen stairs to their flat. “Was that absolutely necessary?” he grumbled, but there was no heat in it. Sherlock couldn’t concentrate beyond the feeling of John’s warm palm through the back of his shirt. It was entirely distracting and he almost ran face-first into the kitchen door before he blearily remembered to raise his hands.

“Mmmm,” he murmured instead, stopping just inside the door and letting John push him again. “Mrs Hudson has really good weed.”

“Yeah, so it would seem,” John muttered darkly, snagging Sherlock by the elbow as he went to sit at the kitchen table and propelling him through the hallway to his bedroom instead. Sherlock pouted a little, but dutifully stumbled his way over to the bed, catching John’s hand as he went, and pulling him closer. John shook his head with a put-upon sigh, but placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and pushed him to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Mmmmm you should stay,” Sherlock drawled, sighing in bliss as John drew his shirt right up over his head without even undoing the front buttons. Sherlock felt limp and languid, his limbs like waterlogged spaghetti.

“Sherlock, you need sleep,” John chided and began fiddling with the button on Sherlock’s trousers. Sherlock arched up into the contact, suddenly very aware that he was now half naked with John’s fingers dangerously close to where Sherlock had wanted them for ages. He felt his body slowly starting to respond and couldn’t help the small moan that wended its way up through his chest.

John stilled completely, and Sherlock’s eyes flew open involuntarily. John looked completely delicious. His pupils were slightly dilated, and he kept running his tongue along his bottom lip in a move that was clearly subconscious, but Sherlock was absolutely riveted. He was certainly not tired anymore, and he leaned forward slowly, as though stuck in a thick spread of honey.

“John,” he whispered, barely recognizing his own voice. “Stay.”

John worried his bottom lip a bit more before visibly shaking himself out of his stupor. His look of grim determination was not welcome, and Sherlock sighed dramatically, flopping backwards onto the bed, fully intending to pout for as long as he could. John clearly wanted him, and Sherlock was most definitely offering, so why couldn’t they just get on with it already? Even Mrs Hudson had picked up on their overactive pheromones. Surely it wasn’t that difficult a deduction to make.

“I can’t, Sherlock,” John said firmly, though there was a note of barely suppressed longing at the edge of his tone. “You’re stoned off your gourd, and I’m not about to take advantage of you when you’re in no fit state to remember your own name, much less make rational decisions.”

“But, John,” Sherlock whinged, drawling out John’s name like a particularly sexy wail. “You’re my Rose,” he finished as though that was the definitive answer to the universe.

“I’m sorry?” John said, deftly pulling Sherlock’s trousers off his thighs with clinical efficiency and swinging his legs up onto the mattress, firmly stilling Sherlock’s hips as he began to writhe along the sheets, overwhelmed with pleasant sensation.

“You’re my Rose,” Sherlock muttered again, his eyelids drooping closed as he snuggled into his fluffy duvet. “You can be my Bad Wolf any day, John.” He smirked at his own innuendo and hummed as John’s hand smoothed up his covered shoulder. It felt marvelous and he arched into the touch, shameless as a cat.

John snorted. “Sorry, are you honestly referencing Doctor Who?”   

“Mmmmm,” Sherlock hummed, which was as much an incriminating answer as he was willing to give.

“Sherlock, you hate that show,” John sighed, and surprisingly perched his hip on the edge of the mattress. Sherlock curled into his space immediately, enjoying the way the blankets were constricting his movements. He felt safe and cocooned, surrounded by warmth and soft cotton, and by the intoxicating, glorious scent of his John.  It took him a good deal longer than he’d ever admit for John’s earlier words to catch up with his sluggish brain.

“Wait,” he said, shifting to prop his head on his elbow and blinking his eyes open. “Does that mean you’d take advantage of me if I wasn’t stoned?”

John’s face flushed beautifully, but his smile was full of sad resignation. “Why don’t we wait to talk about that until after you’re sober?” He moved to stand, but Sherlock reached for his wrist before he could step away entirely.

“Please, John,” he implored, suddenly feeling crushingly vulnerable. “Please stay.”

John sighed again and shifted his weight, but Sherlock could see his defenses crumbling. He went for a bit more honesty, hoping it came off less desperate than it sounded in his own mind: “I really don’t want to be alone right now.”

John’s expression melted into something wonderfully intimate. He conceded with a small smile and walked steadily around the foot of the bed, shrugging off his jumper before awkwardly climbing up onto the mattress. He was still atop the covers, and he seemed unbearably stiff and uncomfortable, but he didn’t fight it when Sherlock practically smothered him in long, wiry limbs.

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured into the skin over John’s collarbone. John shivered pleasantly, but he didn’t move, which Sherlock took as a good sign.

“Go to sleep, Sherlock,” sighed again, and brushed his fingers along Sherlock’s hairline. Sherlock practically purred in pleasure and pushed his head up into the contact, smiling into warm skin at John’s bemused chuckle.

“Christ, you’re just like a cat, you berk,” John admonished, but the fond tone was back, and Sherlock merely nuzzled closer, desperately wishing the covers would just magically melt away. John began rubbing little circles against Sherlock’s scalp, and the feeling was so devastatingly wonderful that he let out an involuntary groan that sounded far too sexual for the chaste action. John stilled for a breathless second before resuming his gentle petting, and Sherlock couldn’t help but curl farther into him, his cock suddenly making its presence absolutely known as it throbbed against the inside of Sherlock’s pants.

“John,” Sherlock moaned and rocked his hips a little, a tingling pleasure shooting all the way through his spine as his cock connected with John’s hip through far too many layers of fabric.

“Sherlock,” John warned sternly, but there was a desperate edge to his tone that Sherlock clung to fiercely. “You need to stop.”

“Why?” Sherlock groaned, licking a wet stripe up the side of John’s neck and revelling in the full-body shiver the movement produced.

“Sherlock,” John said sharply, pulling himself away and completely ignoring Sherlock’s low whine of protest. Sherlock rolled after him, landing on his stomach and groaning loudly as his cock ground involuntarily against the mattress. Sherlock felt the bed shift as John slid off the side of the mattress and he couldn’t help the pathetic whimper that escaped his throat at the thought that John was leaving him right now. He felt the unacceptable urge to cry as John’s rejection stabbed through his consciousness.

“John,” he whispered, as his hips stuttered against the sheets. He couldn’t seem to stop his body from rubbing itself into the mattress, the tingling sparks lighting up his whole body even has his heart shattered. “I’m sorry. I can’t--” he whimpered.

He heard John curse softly from the other side of the bedroom: the side closest to the door. Sherlock groaned again and managed to flip himself over, the pressure easing as his cock was no longer in firm contact with anything other than the blankets. He concentrated very hard through the haze of the drug and forced his body back into his own control. This was important. This was John.

Sherlock was suddenly uncomfortably aware that he was panting and deliberately slowed his breathing, feeling the fog dissipate the longer he forcibly focused. He blinked his eyes open to find John standing with his back to the room, one hand on the door frame as though frozen in time.

“John,” Sherlock said, swallowing audibly before forcing his voice steady. “I’m sorry. Please, don’t leave. I promise I’ll behave.”

“Sherlock,” John said tightly, and his fingers flexed against the doorframe. “I’m sorry. I just, I can’t.”

Sherlock slumped back against the bed, feeling as though something terribly precious had just broken between them. He tried to hold reign on his wayward emotions, silently cursing the drug still humming happily in his veins. He felt just sober enough to realize the consequences of his actions, but not clear headed enough to do anything about them.

“Fine,” he said quietly. “Good night, John.”

“Good night,” John replied just as softly before he gently shut the door.

: :

Sherlock woke the next morning to a dry mouth and gummy eyelids. He sighed and rolled over in his bed, desperately wishing he could forget all about last night’s many indiscretions. There were multiple reasons he stayed far away from drugs these days, but the only one that mattered lately was because he knew John would disapprove, and he honestly didn’t trust himself around the man while intoxicated. Last night was the perfect example of how his judgment became irrevocably clouded with his inhibitions thus lowered, and he wanted nothing more than to erase the last twelve hours. Perhaps he could slip something into John’s tea at breakfast? It had proved useful before… but no. If John ever found out about that Wednesday, he certainly would never trust Sherlock again, and that was completely unacceptable.

Groaning in frustrated annoyance, Sherlock rolled himself out of bed and towards the bathroom, hoping a scalding hot shower might clear his thoughts. His brain still felt a little sluggish after yesterday’s overindulgence and he made a mental note to speak with Mrs Hudson about her current supply. He couldn’t risk John finding out about the fudge, or he’d never hear the end of it.

The shower cleared away a bit of the lingering fog, but Sherlock still felt terribly dehydrated and unpleasantly unfocused. His thoughts kept straying towards last night and the shameless way he’d frotted himself up against John, culminating in John’s abrupt departure. He was disgusted with himself and still uncomfortably embarrassed about the way he’d practically thrown himself at John, even though John had clearly stated multiple times that he didn’t want to take advantage of Sherlock’s delicate state. Sherlock closed his eyes as a hot wave of guilt flooded into the pit of his stomach. He could only hope that John wouldn’t hold it against him for longer than a week.

He expected breakfast to be incredibly awkward, and he wasn’t disappointed. When John finally came down into the kitchen, it was well past ten and he had the stilted, determined gait that meant he was trying unsuccessfully to pretend as though nothing was wrong. Sherlock could feel the tension stretching between them as John rooted around in the cabinets, producing bread and marmalade before popping two slices in the toaster and filling the kettle.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably and turned slightly towards Sherlock, keeping his eyes firmly on the kettle as the water level rose. “Have you eaten?”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise, and focused steadily on the paper in his hands. He wasn’t absorbing a single word, but he wanted to give John the illusion of privacy. The truth was, he’d eaten more yesterday in Mrs Hudson’s sitting room than he had in the past week combined and he couldn’t imagine ever being hungry again, but he’d eat if it would make John happy.

They sat in unbearable silence until the kettle finally boiled and John poured the water over two teabags, waiting until they steeped and preparing them before finally turning to look at Sherlock, the discomfort and vague embarrassment overly apparent in his face.

Sherlock cleared his throat and shifted restlessly. “John,” he started, forcing his voice into his usual calm detachment, “I must apologize for last night. I…” he trailed off, honestly unsure of how to explain himself.

“No. Listen,” John interrupted, shifting his weight as he set Sherlock’s mug down on the table. Sherlock held his breath, but looked up expectantly. “I know things got a little out of hand last night,” John continued, looking flushed, but determined. “I just wanted to say that I’m not,” he faltered, “I’m not going to leave or anything. Christ knows I’ve been drunk enough times around you to do some terribly embarrassing things. Not that you need to be embarrassed,” he said quickly, looking panicked, and began backpedaling immediately. “I’m just saying it’s fine. It’s… it’s all fine, so… no worries, yeah?”

Sherlock blinked up at him for a moment, unsure what to say. Uncontrollable relief washed through him, but he still felt there were things unsaid between them. It was making him twitchy and irritable, but he settled on nodding curtly and picking at the toast John set in front of him.

They ate in strained silence, sipping occasionally at their tea and focusing on their respective papers, but the level of discomfort was becoming unbearable and Sherlock was just about ready to scream when the sitting room door opened.

“Woo hoo,” Mrs Hudson called, popping her head round the corner and smiling at the two of them. “I didn’t want to risk interrupting anything,” she said, shooting Sherlock a knowing grin before handing John a stack of post.

Sherlock felt his stomach drop and hastily glared down at his paper, firmly ignoring Mrs Hudson’s imploring looks. John cleared his throat awkwardly and stood.

“Care for a cuppa, Mrs H?” he asked politely.

“Oh, I don’t want to be a bother,” she deflected, and Sherlock glanced up briefly to see she was staring between them with a look of incredulity on her face. She turned to Sherlock with one eyebrow raised and he shrugged back in answer.

“How are you feeling this morning?” John asked her, handing over a steaming mug of tea.

“Oh, I’m fine, dear. Thank you.”

“No--” John seemed to search for some appropriate words, “Lasting effects?” he apparently settled on.

Mrs Hudson laughed; the girlish, tinkling sound that echoed through Sherlock’s brain with half formed memories of yesterday afternoon. “Oh, Dr Watson. No need to worry yourself over me at all. I’ve not had ‘lasting effects’ since before you were born, young man.”

John blanched slightly at being called young anything, but he smirked a little at Sherlock over the edge of his paper, and Sherlock felt his pulse kick up a notch or two.

“And how are you two getting on?” Mrs Hudson probed ruthlessly. “I didn’t hear any… disturbing noises last night or anything.”

John promptly turned beet red and busied himself with burning his tongue, evidently, as he choked down his entire mug of tea in one. Sherlock snickered quietly to himself, but the comment was a little too close to his current state of mind to be entirely comfortable. Mrs Hudson caught Sherlock’s eye and raised her brows higher. He shook his head minutely and shifted to stand, striding to the door and opening it pointedly.

“As you can see, John and I are perfectly fine, Mrs Hudson,” he said firmly, tilting his head in a blatant hint.

She looked affronted for a moment, but stood with dignity and bustled her way out, thanking John for the barely touched cup of tea and leaving the mug in the sink. She was clearly trying to catch Sherlock’s eye on the way out, but he was studiously avoiding her gaze, choosing to stare wistfully at John’s broad shoulders beneath his shirt instead. She tsk-ed as she brushed past him and murmured something that sounded like boys before shuffling her way out onto the landing. Sherlock watched her go with a mixture of relief and apprehension. He desperately wished he knew the correct protocol for this type of situation. He settled back into his chair and snapped the paper open, going for his usual air of casual aloofness.

“That was rude,” John chided from behind The Guardian.

“Oh please,” Sherlock huffed. His irritability was only getting worse the longer he stayed cooped up with John in this indecipherable state of heightened emotion. “You wanted her gone just as much as I did.”

“Sherlock,” John muttered darkly, his tone warning and cautious at the same time. Sherlock hated it.

“It’s clear you regret last night, John,” Sherlock ground out, fists clenching on the paper, “So I suggest you try to forget the whole incident. I shall be deleting the entire unfortunate experience, never fear.” It was a lie. The memory of being so intimately pressed against John would forever be branded into his mind palace, but if it would bring the atmosphere in their flat back to normal, Sherlock was willing to pretend otherwise. It was suddenly unbelievably oppressive in the kitchen, and Sherlock stood to flee, his only thought on getting as far away from John as he could.

“Sherlock,” John sighed and stood to intercept him as he hastened his way to his bedroom. Sherlock went to sidestep him, but John reached out and placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, effectively stilling him. Sherlock felt his breath catch at the contact, and tried to keep his traitorous body from trembling with repressed desire.

“Sherlock, if we’re going to do this, I’d rather have you, with no added effects or clouded judgment,” he said, thumb swiping along the edge of Sherlock’s neckline and brushing delicately along the thin skin at the nape of his neck. The touch was so gentle, Sherlock was half convinced he was imagining it.

“I’m not altered now, John,” Sherlock whispered, barely daring to breathe.

John’s lips curled up into a soft smile. “No,” he whispered back, stepping closer and tilting his head up a fraction, bringing their lips within a hair's breadth apart. “You’re not.”

Sherlock lost the battle and leaned forward; finally, finally pressing his mouth to John’s, consequences be damned. John let loose a groan so deep, Sherlock imagined he could feel it in his toes, and swayed into the kiss, opening his mouth and touching his tongue tentatively to Sherlock’s bottom lip. Sherlock groaned and surged forward, licking into John’s mouth with obvious intent. His whole body felt like it was on fire, consumed with idea that he was finally able to touch John in this most coveted way.

Sherlock was vaguely aware of John’s fingers tangled into the curls at the back of his head, but he was distracted by the fact that his own hands were digging into John’s hips and pulling him in closer, pressing their bodies together knees to chest. John tasted of marmalade and tea, of promise and danger, of sex and yearning, and Sherlock drank him in, unable to stop. He shifted his hands, sliding them back along John’s arse and gripping hard, pulling him impossibly closer and letting him feel Sherlock’s straining erection. John groaned against his tongue and rocked his own hips in tandem. Sherlock’s breath stuttered and he pulled back with a soft oh.

John was hard. It was marvelous and terrifying and utterly thrilling, and Sherlock didn’t bother to restrain himself as he bodily shoved John backwards into his bedroom. John’s hands were tearing at Sherlock’s dressing gown, muffled curses falling from his lips as Sherlock dipped his head to lick at John’s addictive throat. He tasted of sweat and musk, entirely male and deliciously aroused, and Sherlock found himself burying his face in John’s neck and sucking greedily at his pulse point.

“Jesus Christ,” John sighed, his fingers fumbling with Sherlock’s shirt buttons even as Sherlock’s own long fingers were deftly tugging at the zip on his denims. “God, Sherlock, the way you move.”

Sherlock huffed into his neck and bit down gently on the collarbone just visible above John’s open shirt. With a bit of contorting, he finally managed to slip his hand into John’s pants, wrapping his fingers around the sticky length of John’s cock and pulling upwards with a twist. John shuddered and his head fell back with a soft moan. John was hard and blood hot against his palm, and Sherlock could actually feel the throb of his pulse through the engorged flesh as he squeezed gently.

“John,” he purred, licking at the intoxicating swell of John’s throat as John’s jaw worked around the words he couldn’t seem to stop. John was a babbling mess of curses and praises, and Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle at the contradiction.

“Christ, you fucking brilliant tease, just do it already,” John growled, arching his hips up into Sherlock’s touch. Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure what it was he was meant to be doing, but he had his own ideas. In one smooth move, he tugged at the waistband of John’s denims, pulling them down along with his pants as he fell to his knees.

“Fuck,” John breathed, watching him with eyes bordering on feral. He reached a trembling hand forward and carded his fingers through Sherlock’s fringe, tugging slightly and chuckling when Sherlock moaned and pushed his head up into the touch. It felt wonderfully intimate and beautifully sensual, and Sherlock shamelessly rolled his head into John’s palm, seeking more.

“So,” John huffed around a wide grin, “Not just the drugs then.”

Sherlock spared him a stern glance before focusing again on John’s cock. It was red and wet already, pre-come oozing from the exposed glans, and Sherlock felt saliva pool beneath his tongue at the sight. He leaned and licked a slow trail from the base to the tip, the taste exploding over his tongue like a heady cocktail. John groaned and tightened his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, the follicles pulling just enough to tingle.

Sherlock decided enough was enough and sucked him down to the root, hollowing his cheeks on the upstroke and brushing his tongue across the frenulum. John gave a short cry and his hips bucked involuntarily. He was babbling again, apologizing and cursing, and it was possibly the hottest thing Sherlock had ever experienced. He wrapped his large hands around John’s hips and stilled their manic movements, bobbing his head a few times to mollify John’s apparent need to thrust. He made the mistake of glancing up and nearly choked at the sight before him: John’s head was thrown back, his eyes closed, mouth open and wet, cheeks flushed and glowing. He looked positively sinful, and Sherlock moaned around his mouthful, glad to have the noise muffled as it was.

“Fucking Christ,” John gasped and his fingers tightened painfully. Sherlock pulled reluctantly off with an obscenely slick noise, licking his abused lips and blinking up into John’s darkened gaze. His eyes were nearly black, and he looked distinctly predatory. Sherlock felt a thrill of arousal spiral dangerously down his spine and he became acutely aware of his own throbbing erection, still trapped in his trousers.

“Come here,” John growled and pulled Sherlock up by the back of his neck, thrusting his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth with obvious purpose. Sherlock melted against him, allowing himself to float on a steady stream of endorphins as John kissed him back onto the mattress. His brain seemed clouded again, and he was briefly worried if the drug was still in his system, but dismissed that thought immediately. It was simply John: his pheromones and his intoxicating mouth and the way his hips were pushing rhythmically downward against Sherlock’s groin, and Sherlock felt drunk with it. He tipped his head back and just let go.

He felt John’s clever hands unfastening his trousers and then there were warm fingers caressing his hipbones, John’s filthy mouth muttering obscenities when he discovered Sherlock frequently went without pants. Sherlock smirked as he leaned his head back, drinking in John’s attention and feeling his pulse race beneath his skin. John tugged him up and yanked the shirt from his shoulders, tossing it aside before licking a trail of fire down his chest to his right nipple, sucking it between his teeth and biting down gently. Sherlock’s back arched of its own volition and he heard himself gasp, shockingly loud in the stifling room.

“Off,” Sherlock demanded, ineffectively shoving at the fabric of John’s shirt. John knelt up for a moment and tugged the garment up over his head, giving Sherlock his first unheeded glimpse of pale skin and compact muscle. He blinked down at Sherlock, a moment of uncertainty clouding his dark blue eyes for a split second. Sherlock stared back up at him in astonishment, and allowed appreciation and want to show plainly in his gaze. John gave a little self-deprecating laugh and sat back on his heels, clearly understanding Sherlock’s impulse to collect data. Sherlock’s mouth watered again and he sat up, running his hands across John’s slightly softened abdomen, chasing his fingers with his tongue, glad, not for the first time, of their height difference as he licked a wide path all the way up to the fascinating scar at John’s left shoulder.

John groaned and captured Sherlock’s lips in another searing kiss, framing his jaw between his palms and tipping his face up. The angle was uncomfortable, but Sherlock wouldn’t have broken the contact for anything in the world. He could feel his own pulse, heavy and thick on the back of his tongue, lack of oxygen making him lightheaded and dizzy. John was all around him, overwhelming his senses and forcing him to concede. It was absolutely mesmerizing.

Sherlock gentled the kiss, slowing the pace a little and running his palms up the length of John’s spine, pulling himself closer and nipping at John’s lower lip. He went down willingly when John tipped him backwards again, falling gently onto the bed and pushing himself towards the headboard.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” John murmured into his collarbone, hips rolling lazily as though he couldn’t help himself. Sherlock felt the zip of his trousers dig uncomfortably into his scrotum and winced. John chuckled and wiggled a bit himself, obviously trying to get comfortable as well.

Sherlock disentangled his legs from John’s and kicked his trousers down off the end of the bed, feeling as John did the same before bringing their naked bodies into contact for the first time. John was intensely hot, his skin like fire all along Sherlock’s over sensitive flesh. He felt each point of contact burn between them, and wondered briefly if it was actually possible to spontaneously combust. He shook the thought off, focusing instead on the feeling of John’s strong thighs nudging his apart before sliding his lower body against Sherlock’s with a slow roll of his hips.

Sherlock grasped at John’s shoulders, fingernails digging in and leaving harsh red crescents behind. The sight was breathtakingly beautiful and his spine curved again, his body sliding along John’s in a way that was far too distracting. John growled again and thrust his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, dominant and forceful, and Sherlock shuddered as fighting instinct warred with submission.

He settled for wrapping his thighs tightly around John’s waist and pulling himself up off the bed, trusting John’s strength to keep them upright. John grunted, but slid his right arm under the small of Sherlock’s back, clutching him tightly and hefting his weight easily, bringing him bodily up the bed. Sherlock was reeling. He’d never felt this level of arousal before, and his brain seemed to be short circuiting with overwhelming data as sensation began to take over reason for the first time in his life. He felt entirely out of control, and he wondered at how natural it felt.  

“God, Sherlock,” John growled into the side of his neck, more teeth than tongue at that point. It felt incendiary and toxic, and Sherlock let his head fall back as his body made the decision for him.

“John,” he groaned, startled at the gravelly tone his voice produced. He sounded needy and desperate, but he couldn’t be bothered to care at the moment. John’s hips rocked again, and his cock slipped down into the crease of Sherlock’s perineum. They both froze, the implication of the movement shocking them both into stillness.

“I…” John started, swallowing audibly before clearing his throat. “Sherlock, I’m sorry. I don’t want to presume...”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered before he could overthink it. John’s eyes flashed with lust for a moment before he shut them and shook his head.

“We should really talk about this,” he panted, keeping himself unnaturally still but for the gentle throb of his cock where it rested between Sherlock’s legs.

“Stop talking, John,” Sherlock growled and rocked his hips up, gasping as the head of John’s cock brushed against his hole. He suddenly wanted it more than anything: the feeling of John inside him, wanting him, claiming him as if he was something worthy of John’s attention. He shuddered at the thought and arched forward, licking his consent into John’s mouth, feeling the exact moment John relented as his desire spun wildly out of control.

John pulled back, panting and primitive, and Sherlock shivered again at the sheer heat in his gaze. He raked a possessive glance down towards Sherlock’s cock, now positively straining. He looked back up at Sherlock from under his lashes, and flashed him a devilish grin before launching himself sideways towards the bedside table. Sherlock took in a deep lungful of air, trying to clear a bit of the fog from his mind.

John returned a moment later, brandishing a mostly used bottle of lubricant and a condom with a raised eyebrow. Sherlock shrugged off his embarrassment at being caught out. What did it matter if John knew about his masturbatory habits? He was about to get fucked, after all. The thought sent a shiver of longing down his spine and he spread his legs wider in invitation.

“Jesus, just look at you,” John breathed, popping open the cap on the bottle and covering two of his fingers in the thick, viscous gel. “You actually want this, don’t you?”

Sherlock didn’t even dignify that rhetorical question with an answer and canted his hips up instead, grinning widely as John cursed again and tossed the slick bottle aside. He leaned in for a kiss, and Sherlock gave himself up to it, feeling the practicality of the action as John braced himself on his right elbow, the fingers of his left hand tracing a trail of fire down over the swell of Sherlock’s scrotum towards his hole. He lingered a bit on Sherlock’s perineum, rubbing small circles into the skin until Sherlock was arching into the movement, practically incoherent with want. He felt the contact all the way through to his spine and he vaguely registered John’s fingers inching slowly backwards until they finally circled his hole. It seemed as though every single nerve was connected to the small patch of skin, and Sherlock positively writhed.

John gave him a small, tender smile before pressing in gently, easing his way in with small kisses along Sherlock’s pale throat. Sherlock felt his body give, felt the slight burn of entry, but he was too lost to do more than rock his hips in a silent plea for more. He was beyond thought, beyond anything more than a willing body; his transport finally taking over and demanding retribution for years of neglect.

Sherlock felt the stretch at two fingers, saw how John’s face was flushed and sweaty with concentration, his eyes constantly gauging Sherlock’s reactions as he slowly took him apart, piece by piece. Sherlock felt completely shattered and entirely whole; the contradictions spinning around his useless brain as his body pulsed with sensation when John’s fingers brushed intently against his prostate.

When John finally pulled away to roll the condom on, Sherlock was almost sobbing with arousal. He was fairly sure he’d never been this hard in his life, and the desire to have John as deeply inside him as possible was so strong he could barely breathe around the want.

“Please,” he whinged, beyond embarrassment. John blinked up at him with something that looked suspiciously like reverence and dipped in for a kiss so tender, Sherlock felt the mortifying urge to cry. Sherlock felt the head of John’s cock probe gently against his arse, felt it as John shifted for a better angle, and then the absolutely delicious stretch as he sunk into him in one glorious slide of friction and almost unbearable heat. Sherlock’s back arched of its own accord, and he felt his entire nervous system flicker with pleasure as synapses fired and chemicals were released into his brain. Oxytocin, serotonin, dopamine, vasopressin; each one had his spine bowing forward as John slowly withdrew before pushing in again, just as carefully.

“God, you’re tight,” John murmured into the skin at the crook of his neck, and Sherlock leaned into the next thrust, causing his arse to smack audibly against John’s thighs. John huffed out a breath, all heat and testosterone, and Sherlock bucked against him, fighting his way back into consciousness by sheer force of will. The novelty of being filled was beginning to wear off into a more insistent thrumming sensation as his blood pulsed faster, spreading the intoxicating endorphins through the rest of his body, his skin feeling tight and overly warm.

“John,” he groaned as the next stroke nudged firmly against his prostate. Heat spiraled along his nerve endings, pleasure flashing through his whole body as John deliberately aimed for the spot again. Sherlock blinked his eyes open, unaware of when he’d closed them, to see John staring down at him in wonder. He looked positively gorgeous: muscles bunching and flexing as he rested his full weight on his arms, his shoulders a mass of sinewy grace, sweat beading along his throat as he held himself back, clearly wanting to make this moment last.

Sherlock rocked up into him, clutching at John’s biceps for a bit of leverage. John growled low in his throat, the pace increasing, and Sherlock bit his lip with a small whimper. Sherlock could feel his entire body tightening; every single muscle coiling tighter and tighter as he chased towards oblivion. He could feel his orgasm starting at the base of his spine, heat licking along his thighs as John picked up the pace, slamming into him hard enough now to rattle the bedposts.

In a heroic feat of strength, John pulled himself back, bringing Sherlock up with him to sit astride his lap with a firm hand between his shoulder blades. Sherlock cried out as the angle changed, John moving so deeply inside of him he was unsure where John ended and Sherlock began.

“Come on,” John panted into his ear, causing a shiver to tremble all the way down Sherlock’s spine. They were both slick with perspiration, and the slide was filthy and marvelous. Sherlock felt his thighs trembling as he attempted to keep up, John fucking up into him with increasing force until it was all Sherlock could do to hold on. His cock was trapped between their torsos, the sticky head sliding along John’s firm abdomen with every bouncing thrust, and Sherlock felt his control slipping, waves of pleasure crashing through him as John pushed ruthlessly into him.

God, it was better, so much better than any drug Sherlock had ever had in his system. His vision was beginning to flicker, greying around the edges as he neared orgasm, his body so tightly wound he thought he might snap on impact. John shifted once more and thrust up hard, hitting Sherlock’s prostate, and in one solid, shocking moment of blinding pleasure, Sherlock began to come.

His voice faltered, jaw slackening around a silent scream as pulse after pulse of semen poured out of him, smearing between them as John fucked him through it. Sensation coursed through him, crackling along his nerves as every single muscle tensed and released in time with his racing pulse. Sherlock could swear his heart stopped for one breathless second before the entire universe seemed to narrow into blinding pleasure. He clutched tighter to John, his limbs useless and slack as John thrust up into him, his movements frantic and stuttered as he chased his own orgasm.

Sherlock licked up the side of John’s neck, tasting sweat and testosterone, his own body still thrumming with almost unbearable pleasure. He tugged John’s mouth to his, plunging his tongue in to taste as John gave himself over to it, his whole body shaking with barely suppressed arousal.

Sherlock pulled his mouth away, dragging his teeth along John’s neck before giving in to the impulse and biting down. John bucked up, his hands sliding along Sherlock’s sweat-drenched thighs, fingers digging into muscle and bone hard enough to bruise. Sherlock could actually feel John’s cock thicken inside him, pulsing and swelling as he teetered on the edge.

“Let go, John,” Sherlock rumbled into his ear, tongue catching along the lobe for a moment. “Give me this. Just let go.”

John cried out and thrust up, hips freezing for a dizzying second as he came hard, muffling his sounds against the side of Sherlock’s throat, fingers biting into Sherlock’s arse as he held them both still. Sherlock could feel his cock pulsing, come and lube easing the friction as John’s hips finally slowed and eventually stopped.

They sat there, both of them trembling with aftershocks until John made a pained sound. Sherlock eased himself up, every muscle protesting the movements until he felt John’s cock slide out of him. He felt irrationally bereft, his exhausted body craving more even now. Sherlock flopped gracefully back onto the bed, watching avidly as John unfolded his aching legs and tipped forward to land next to him, his expression a mixture of bliss and discomfort.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked softly, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth.

John huffed a breathy chuckle and rolled onto his side, his lovely brow creasing as his muscles clearly strained. “Bit overenthusiastic, I think,” John groaned, tentatively stretching his legs out along the sheets before tangling his ankles with Sherlock’s. He shot Sherlock a wide grin full of so much affection, Sherlock felt his breath catch. “Worth it, though,” John murmured, bringing one shaking hand up to swipe at his own sweat-tipped hair.

Sherlock felt boneless and sated, his whole body tingling with warmth as his overstimulated brain began feebly kicking back into life. John sighed in apparent contentment and nuzzled in closer, the edge of his broad shoulder nudging into Sherlock’s armpit. Sherlock lay perfectly still, afraid of shattering the contemplative peace between them, and wishing desperately he knew what to do in situations like this.

John’s easy chuckle was entirely baffling, and Sherlock felt his body relax before he could stop himself.

“So,” John started with a salacious grin, rolling over to sprawl across Sherlock’s sweaty chest. “Not just the drugs then?” Sherlock opened his mouth to answer with his usual sarcasm and acerbity, but there was an edge to the repeated question that made him pause. Beneath the bravado, John was looking distinctly unsettled, as though he honestly thought Sherlock only wanted him while high as a kite, and that was completely unacceptable.

“No, John. It’s never been the drugs,” Sherlock said, running his fingers up the back of John’s neck to tangle in the back of his hair. John smiled warmly and pressed his face into Sherlock’s sternum, hot breath against damp skin, and Sherlock felt himself shiver as another spark of impossible arousal flickered through his veins.

“What was it about, then?” John murmured, his lips catching against pale skin as he eased his mouth along the ridge of a sharp pectoral. Sherlock arched marginally into the touch, and his fingers flexed involuntarily against the back of John’s skull.

“You,” he whispered, and felt John still against him. Sherlock felt suddenly vulnerable, caught in the cross beam of John’s searching gaze, but he forced his own eyes to remain open, even as the mortifying flush infused his cheekbones. John was staring at him with that now-familiar wonder, as though Sherlock was the most marvelous thing in the world, and Sherlock felt his heart clench at the thought.

John suddenly shifted, propping himself up to loom over Sherlock, his lips ghosting delicately along the edge of Sherlock’s jaw, and Sherlock swallowed back the moan that threatened to shake itself loose from his chest.

“Me?” John whispered against the shell of his ear, and Sherlock couldn’t suppress the shudder that travelled along his spine; arousal spiking harsh and hot through the pit of his stomach.

“The drugs were merely a catalyst,” Sherlock murmured, hating how unsteady his voice sounded, but unable to stop the breathy hum as John nibbled at the lobe of his ear.

“Hmm. Are you saying you were going for some kind of reaction?” John snickered, bringing his hips down to trap Sherlock’s restless legs beneath him.

“John,” Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes at the absurd innuendo. John merely grinned at him and brought his lips down in a kiss full of heat and promise. Sherlock saw his chance and took it, swiftly knocking John off balance and rolling them over to pin the other man down to the mattress.

“Are you saying you’d be up for more… experimentation?” Sherlock smirked, quirking his eyebrow even as he held John’s wrists up over his head. John struggled for a moment before going boneless against the mattress, eyes wide and dark and wonderfully playful.

“God, yes,” he grinned and Sherlock leaned forward to lick the laughter right out of his mouth.

: :

Mrs Hudson smiled fondly to herself as she stirred the cocoa powder into the melted sugar, and cranked the radio up another few notches for good measure, wondering if she had enough time to set the fudge to cooling before the boys started in on round three. It was evidently settling in to be a very long night, and she was nothing if not an opportunist. Sealing the plastic container tightly, she rested the still warm fudge into the bottom of a bag to take next door to Mrs Turner’s. No need to get in the way of a perfectly fine evening. Besides, the Doctor Who marathon was starting in a quarter hours’ time, and it would take longer than that for the fudge to cool completely.

Grinning widely to herself, Mrs Hudson slipped out her door to the raucous sounds of a very enthusiastic evening, and went to find her own pleasure elsewhere. After all, she had her fudge, and she had Doctor Who, and she could finally compare notes with Mrs Turner with utter conviction. It was shaping up to be a very promising night indeed.

 

 

‘course neither of us were wearing helmets
and the blood was just everywhere
and when the morphine kicked in later
the censors threw their hands up in despair
but that’s when the truth came marching in
and promptly pulled the plug
but you were better than any drug
you were better than any drug

~Modulation, Ani DiFranco