In the Heat of the Moment

John was drunk. Though, drunk actually seemed to subtle a word. He'd just had a huge fight with Sherlock. The dumb genius. Sherlock had been out on a date the previous evening. Sherlock dating! What next? Flying pigs?

Admittedly, it had been for a case. Something about needing the girl to get to her brother. He wasn't entirely sure, especially with the alcohol slowly seeping through his veins. But he relished the liquid fire. It gave him something else to think about. He signaled for another, his slowed down brain not able to connect the bad possibilities.

It was entirely possible he wouldn't be able to make it back to Baker Street this night. And maybe that's what he wanted. Screw Sherlock and his amazing brain. In fact, screw everything about that egotistical, standoff, handsome idiot. John actually flinched when the word "handsome" came into his mind. But again, he was too drunk to care about it for more than a few seconds.

"Another one," he slurred out, waving with his hand. The bartender gave him a skeptical look but poured him another one.

"What's wrong mate?" he asked. "You look like you're trying to forget your whole life." John just looked up at him blurry eyes.

"Nah, just the last year or so," he snarked, downing the drink. He forced the liquid down, unwilling to give in to the gag reflex.

"Ah, love problem?" The bartender shot him a sympathetic glance. John just waved him off. Unfortunately, he hadn't drunk enough to completely wipe the memories of the last few hours.

He'd come home to Sherlock wrapped up with a girl. Which in itself was disturbing enough to send John into a drinking binge. Sherlock had looked up when they'd come in, with nothing more than mild curiosity in his eyes.

John almost dropped the grocery bags he was carrying. The girl had bit her lip, obviously wanting to continue. John, without another word, had exited the flat. He'd seen enough to last a lifetime.

"Bye," came the girl's voice as he locked the door. He'd bitten his lip and stomped down the stairs. Well, whatever. He had stuff to do anyway. Yeah, lots and lots of really important stuff to do.

He'd come back three hours later, bored out of his mind. When he unlocked the door, he was silently praying that the girl would no longer be there. Success, at least God gave small miracles. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, obviously deep in thought.

"Pen," he ordered, twisting his neck so he could look at John. And there was something about his calm demeanor that just pissed Joh off. He'd found a pen in his desk, and thrown it at the detective. Sherlock didn't even flinch when it hit him on the arm.

"Somebody is mad," he remarked, taking the pen. John just rolled his eyes. But was he really ready to reveal his reasoning for his anger? You know what, indeed he was.

"Who was the girl?" he asked, voice tight. His unnatural anger made Sherlock's head snap up. John now had his full attention.

"Her? Sister of Morgan Spencer. Serial killer." John started at that. He knew that Morgan Spencer had killed two young men, but he didn't know he was a serial killer.

"Hm, how'd you know he was a serial killer?" he asked. Sherlock to his surprise didn't roll his eyes. Probably too much effort for the pompous arse.

"Let's revisit the facts shall we? A paranoid loner who is targeting young men who we've already proved have no relation. He's gay, obviously, and it targeting young men whom he finds attractive. But who would never give him a chance. No revenge in his eyes though, you can see from the bodies. Just a skewed view of unrequited love. Done, serial killer." John didn't even bother pointing out that no, it was not done. Not to any normal person out there.

"Right yeah, of course," he said, sitting down in his chair. "Was it necessary to snog her?" Sherlock had a look in eyes fairly close to surprise.

"Jealous?" he asked, with a curiosity that he hid well. John just snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Sherlock, I was just wondering why you took it so far." He was bristling, every nerve on high alert. He was ready to defend himself at all costs.

"Because she wanted to." Sherlock said it like it was so obvious. John gave a frustrated sigh. He knew he shouldn't be feeling so… possessive. But he did. And he wasn't gonna bother trying to analyze it. Sod that.

"Do you know anything about romance?" John asked, before realizing he could answer his own question.

"Romance? Another word for weakness. A trait found in the losers of wars." For some reason, one that John did not know, that really hurt him. Like a small prick to his emotions. Okay, more like a knife cut.

"You really are a machine," he said, forcing back a hitch in his breath. Forced back everything.

"And you're impossible," he finished, grabbing his jacket and storming out of the flat. He was getting so frustrated with Sherlock's inability to feel. And he didn't even know why he cared. Why did it matter if Sherlock was asexual? Or aromantic? Or in love with his skull or whatever.

Maybe it was just because he knew what Sherlock was missing out on. Yeah, that was it. He cared about Sherlock. He wanted to help Sherlock feel those emotions he'd been denied for so long.

Then why were you so mad he was on a date? A little voice asked. John took a deep breath, shut it up and headed down to the pub.

Another glass. That's all he would have. Then it was back to Baker Street for him. He checked his phone, forcing his eyes to focus for a few seconds. The time said 3 something. Sherlock would be either asleep or deep in thought. Either way, John was clear to go back to the flat.

He drank the last sips of his drink, before placing the glass down on the counter. He tossed some money down, not willing to properly count it. It just seemed like too large an effort. He nodded at the bartender, before stumbling out of the bar. He shivered as the cool air hit his skin, and quickly wrapped his jacket around his shoulders.

"Sod this," he muttered, in an overall foul mood. Though the liquid currently coursing through his blood was helping quite a lot. He took off in the direction of his flat, at least he thought it was. After about ten minutes of wandering, he did indeed see the flat just a few hundred yards away. At the time, it seemed like miles.

But John was a soldier. He'd trekked for miles and miles before. So, he began the effort to make it back to his flat. He walked slowly, his body trying to absorb the alcohol into his system. It slowed his reflexes, dulled his brain, and weakened his mental energy.

He stumbled up the stairs, uncaring of the noise he was making. He wasn't being noisy enough to wake Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock wouldn't notice anyway.

"Stupid thing," he muttered, as he approached the lock. It took him a solid four tries to insert the key into the lock, and turn it in the right direction. He flung the door open and looked around the darkened. So, Sherlock had decided to sleep for the night. Great, good for him. John was still mad at him though.

He was feeling things for the detective even he couldn't 100% place a finger on. Oh sure, attraction. But that was whatever. What he was truly worried about, was that he was dangerously close to love. John Watson was no fool, despite what Sherlock said. He also knew himself well enough to know his feelings. But everything was complicated with Sherlock.

Figures that I fall for an aromantic or asexual person. It would have been funny enough to laugh, but the darkness seemed to remind John that it was night.

"Water," he said aloud, trying to work out his thought process. He moved quietly thought the flat, mostly by his other senses. He located a glass that didn't have sheep's blood in it and took it over to the sink.

After a quick drink, for the first time, not liquor, John started to think about sleeping. His bed was a long way away from the kitchen. So instead, he settled on the couch, bringing his laptop to him. He opened it, barely remembering his own password.

When he finally did unlock it, it opened up to his blog. His fingers hovered over the keys, wanting to write something.

Tell them about Sherlock. Tell them how you feel. John grinned, an idea developing in his alcohol wired brain. He would blog about Sherlock. About his feelings for Sherlock. Let everyone know. That would show the detective. That would force him to deal with emotion. John nodded and smiled. He then opened up a document and began doing just that.

Hello everyone. Just a quick warning, if this story doesn't perform it's coming down. Because I already have a lot going on with other stories. Anyways, welcome to this fanfic. It will be several chapters, hopefully, updated fairly regularly.

Next time… When John wakes up with the hangover of the century, he is shocked to find what he wrote on his latest blog post. Especially with Sherlock sitting right next to him.

R&R

NightLightning21