Aha! I promised, and here it is – what more is there to say? :)

DISCLAIMER: The situation hasn't changed since last night – still not mine :/

Warnings: Swearing, and mentions of previous Sherlock-suicide attempts (sorry for slipping another chunk of angst). However, there is also snuggling! and kissing! Woohoo! Hope that makes up for it – enjoy!

Sherlock

When I wake, I feel unusually warm. Normally, in the mornings I am freezing, partly due to my habit of kicking my duvet to the bottom of the bed during the night. I am still trying to work out quite why this is not the case today, when I become conscious of somebody else in my bed.

My immediate reaction is to stiffen, but then I realise the intruder is none other than John, and relax again. The events of last night come flooding back to me, and I shudder at the memory. That dream felt so horrifically real, and the relief that came sweeping over me when I established John was not a hallucination and the whole thing had been a product of my overactive imagination was immense.

Now, for whatever reason, John is sleeping in my bed. More to the point, my arms are wrapped around him comfortably, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. My head is pressed to his chest, which is unfortunate, since I want to observe his facial expression when he wakes. However, there is no doubt that it is sinfully luxurious to be lying there, listening to little whispery snores issuing from John's mouth, bathing in his presence.

It was clear what must have happened. He came into my room last night in order to comfort me, and then had succumbed to exhaustion while waiting for me to fall asleep. Nature and an instinct to embrace a warm human body were clearly responsible for our current state of being.

Somehow, I don't find it objectionable in the slightest. To be able to listen to John breathing, to be able to hear his heart beating, to be able to share in the warmth of his body, must surely be one of the greatest privileges on Earth. It just feels right.

Last night I found my underwear drawer was not arranged as it was normally, and realised John had found my little stash of secret items. No doubt he'll be curious. Maybe I'll mention it later.

I wonder what he will say when he wakes up. He'll be embarrassed, no doubt, because he's straight and straight men don't wake up cuddling their male flatmates, but he'll get over it. I briefly consider getting up to save him the inevitable awkwardness, but quickly decided against him. I am, by nature, extremely selfish, and nothing is going to move me from my current position.

John

I swim gradually back into consciousness. I feel incredibly relaxed and comfortable – how long have I been asleep? I stretch slightly, and freeze. I am sharing a bed with someone. I open my eyes, and find, to my horror, that my face is full of ebony curls.

Fuck.

My sleep-drugged brain doesn't know how, or why, but somehow I am snuggled up with the world's only consulting detective.

Snuggled up with Sherlock fucking Holmes.

Somehow, the words "snuggle" and "Sherlock" shouldn't even be present in the same sentence.

I realise that I must have fallen asleep last night, in his bed. Dear God. I vaguely remember my head hitting the pillow, and thinking that I should get up, but clearly I had never acted on that thought. I pause, assessing my position. My arms are wrapped about Sherlock's shoulders, my face buried in his hair. Sherlock's head is tucked down, so his face is snuggled (stop using that damn word!) into my chest. My body is curled protectively around his. A pair of lanky arms is about my waist, and our legs are tangled together.

I exhale slowly. Maybe, if I can somehow extricate myself from Sherlock's octopus-like limbs, I can escape without him waking up, and not have to…

"John? Are you awake?" That normally sharp, impatient voice has become lazy and beautifully languorous.

"Um… yeah… Morning, Sherlock…"

"Mmmm." He sighs, and yawns luxuriously. "I heard your breathing change tempo."

Shit. He's been awake for some time, analysing the speed of my breathing. A hot blush rushes to my face.

"Um… D'you have the time?"

"Hmmm… 10.53. I can't say I've ever slept for so long. "

I swallow, with difficulty. "I'd better get up – we'll need to pop to Tesco to grab some stuff…"

Sherlock groans in protest as I disentangle myself, and, flushing scarlet, I flee from his room. I stagger down the stairs and fling myself on to the sofa, clutching my head in anguish. It's bad enough that I've just spent the night with Sherlock, though not in that sense, but the fact that Sherlock seemed to find it so natural is even more disturbing. The poor man is probably so starved of human contact that he doesn't realise what's normal and what's not. And two grown men who are most certainly not in a relationship of that kind not only sleeping in the same bed, but also managing to entwine themselves like a couple of bloody octopuses is not normal.

I exhale slowly, trying to quell my rising panic, and that's when I spot the carrier bags on our kitchen table. For a moment I wonder whether Sherlock was up experimenting in the night, but then I see the note on the edge of the table.

To John,

Heard you two came back yesterday evening and thought you probably wouldn't have much in the way of supplies so popped out to the supermarket this morning and got you some of the necessities, though remember it's just the once – I'm not your housekeeper! Hope Sherlock gets well soon – I know you'll look after him. You're welcome to pop downstairs and visit any time you like,

Mrs. H.

A smile spreads over my face, despite myself. Mrs. Hudson never fails to mother us, especially Sherlock, whom she seems to think of like a lost puppy that she needs to look after. At any rate, it'll save us a trip to the shops, the idea of which I was certainly not relishing. Sherlock and supermarkets are, in my opinion, a fairly dangerous combination.

I put the kettle on and go cautiously upstairs to get dressed, though fortunately Sherlock does not leap out of his room like a jack-in-a-box. Upon returning downstairs, I find Sherlock going through the carrier bags with interest, scowling at their contents.

"John, what in God's name are Oreos?"

I laugh, despite my embarrassment at seeing him again, fully dressed of course, and showing no signs that he was hugging me like an oversized teddy bear not ten minutes ago. "I'll show you after breakfast."

"Can we eat them for breakfast?"

"Certainly not. D'you want tea?"

"Please."

He pads into the sitting room like some kind of human panther while I make the tea, with milk, thank God. When I return to the sitting room with two steaming mugs he's already tapping away at his laptop with a concentrated expression. Without looking at me, he accepts the tea and swigs it down in one scalding gulp. I sip at mine, frowning with disapproval as his disrespect for my favourite beverage.

After a few minutes, Sherlock flings his laptop down with a theatrical cry. "Absolutely nothing, John! No emails, no cases on my website, nothing!"

"You do need to rest," I remind him, and he sends me a black scowl.

"John, what good is rest if I go mad with boredom?"

I stop to think for a moment. We've never really been in this position before – weekends are spent like the rest of the week, and we never really stop for any length of time. Save for the odd evening spent watching rubbish telly, we rarely have any time in which Sherlock hasn't got a case. When he does have a case, we spend every available minute cataloguing evidence, working out clues, arguing with Lestrade, insulting Anderson, and chasing after the culprit.

I realise Sherlock is watching me like a small child, waiting for me to provide entertainment. I shrug. "We could… go for a walk?"

"John, of all the tedious, mundane, dull, unimaginative, unstimulating, unoriginal ideas you could have come up with…"

Sherlock

I actually enjoyed our walk much more than I had anticipated. Then again, with my newfound knowledge that I am in love with John, I have no doubt that I would find any activity we participated in together most absorbing.

We walked to the park down the road, where we sat on a bench, and I deduced people's occupations as they walked past, and John checked if I was right by pretending to be someone conducting a survey, a pastime that we both found most amusing. Then we had breakfast (or was it lunch?) in a small café, and I ate something purely because I liked the way that John smiled when I did so.

Then John took me to a bookshop, ("because you need something to occupy that mad brain of yours, Sherlock") and we bought a few detective stories for John and a book about the solar system for me, just in case it should crop up again in another case.

Finally, we returned to Baker Street, noses and ears red from the cold, flinging off coats and scarves and chafing our hands before the radiators. Then I tried an Oreo, and found them really quite appetising, and even more so when John revealed that they could be dipped in milk.

Once our Oreo feast is over, John sits me down on the sofa, telling me he needs to check my stitches, and I reluctantly acquiesce.

John

Sherlock is surprisingly quiet and cooperative as I gently undo his bandages to reveal the wounded flesh beneath. The sight of his injuries sends a shiver of sympathy and dread through me, though I force myself to examine them carefully to check for any inflammation.

Sherlock

John's surgically gloved fingers are very warm on my skin as he peers carefully at my arms. Part of me wants to watch his every movement, each concerned brush of his hand, and part of me wants to shrink away from his kindness and hide my mutilated arms from sight.

John sighs in relief as he draws away. "They're not infected, thank God, and they're healing well."

He glances up at me, and I am struck by the attentive sympathy in his brown eyes. I half-expected to see disgust, and berate myself for doubting John, looking away from his eyes quickly. "Sherlock, are you all right?"

I nod briskly, and only glance back down when he goes to fetch some antiseptic with which to tend to my arms. I hate the long ugly red slashes, held together by the dark stitches. I hate the weakness and the misery that they represent. I hate how they remind of how pathetic and worthless and useless and wretched I can feel. Without thinking, I dig my nails into my left wrist, wincing at the fiery pain, and yet exulting in the feeling of power.

"Fucking hell, Sherlock!"

John yanks my hand away, and holds it tightly, away from my abused flesh. I realise I am breathing hard.

"What the fuck were you doing?"

I turn my head away, not wanting to see the anger and disappointment in his eyes.

"Sherlock?"

I turn to face him miserably, and find that his eyes are full of warmth and tenderness, not anger. I have a sudden urge to lunge forwards and bury my face in his shoulder and sob my heart out.

"Sorry," I murmur.

"Let me see…"

He brushes my left wrist with a feather-light touch, giving me a moment to swallow back the ridiculous tears in my throat.

"This'll sting a little," he warns me, and I nod submissively.

A moment later, pain shoots through my arm and I hiss sharply. Were it anyone but John tending to my wounds, I might well have punched them for not giving me more warning.

But it's John, and I could never hurt him.

John

I watch Sherlock worriedly as I gingerly dab his arms with the antiseptic. His behaviour troubles and distresses me sometimes – that terrible self-destructive streak that threatens to overwhelm him. I wonder if he were like this as a child, and remember the photograph I found the other evening. What was his childhood like? I know so little about him, I realise.

"What are you thinking?" Sherlock asks hoarsely.

I smile and shrug.

"I know you found those things in my room the other day," he says quietly, and I start, glancing up into smiling pale eyes.

"I was… Looking for some underwear… To take into the hospital…" I say quickly, and a smile twitches at his lips.

"So? What were you thinking just now?"

I sigh, realising I am beaten.

"I was just wondering… About your childhood."

Sherlock looks vaguely surprised, though I expect it is probably put on for my benefit. He knows I find it disconcerting when he apparently reads my mind.

"What about it?"

I see a real opportunity to talk with Sherlock, to understand something deeper beneath the genius intellect.

"Mycroft mentioned that your mother killed herself," I say abruptly, and Sherlock stiffens.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have…" I begin to apologise, but Sherlock waves an unconcerned hand.

"It doesn't matter. I can't blame you for your curiosity."

He takes a deep breath, and begins to talk in that deep, clear voice, staring into space.

"My father was a great deal older than my mother. He was a doctor and a politician. I can't remember him very well, to be honest, but I gather he was well known within his particular spheres of influence. My mother was a teacher in a London secondary school."

He pauses for a moment, and I dab a little more antiseptic on his arm. He growls a little in pain, but waves aside my apologies with a long-fingered hand.

"When I was born, Mycroft was seven years old, and already recognised as a child prodigy. He was popular with teachers and pupils alike – a genius. He was destined for great things. And so I strived to be the opposite of him."

I smile, because I can well imagine Sherlock wanting to be anything but like his brother.

"My parents quickly realised I equalled Mycroft's singular intelligence, if not exceeded it. But I was an outcast at school – I was deliberately obnoxious and unpleasant to my teachers. I was suspended on several occasions."

He hesitates. "My early childhood was nonetheless relatively happy. I adored and idolised my mother, as did Mycroft. My father spent much time away from the family on business. When he did come back, he tended to drink a great deal."

He pauses again for a moment.

"Those bruises… on your face… In the photograph…" I murmur. "Did he…?"

Sherlock closes his eyes for a second, and nods.

"My mother tried to stop him, but he would get so angry."

I feel a burst of wrath towards this man who dared to hurt Sherlock… I picture the little boy from the photograph, cowering… I wince in sympathy, wanting desperately to hug the bony man before me, but resisting the urge since I know it would probably embarrass him.

Sherlock is still talking. "When I was six years old, I realised that my mother had begun to… change. She… twitched sometimes, and she wasn't as… graceful as she used to be. She was irritable too, and she liked to put things in order."

He swallows – his Adam's apple bobs in his throat. "When Mycroft came home from boarding school, I told him and he made her go to the doctor's. They said she had Huntington's disease."

I close my eyes for a moment, sharing in Sherlock's pain.

"Her body would shut down until she had to be fed through a tube, until she couldn't even breathe. And worse, her mind would go, until she was a shell of what she was, until she wouldn't even remember our names. Father made us be tested, but neither Mycroft nor I had inherited the gene. We were lucky."

Sherlock swallows again.

"She said she didn't want to be a burden on us, so she took some pills – I don't even remember what they were, and said goodbye to us. She told Mycroft to look after me. She told me to stay out of trouble. She told us both not to fight. And then she just… died."

"Shit, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"

Pale eyes burn into mine. "I wanted to tell you. I've never told anyone before."

There is silence for a moment, and then Sherlock speaks again. "You want to know about when I tried to kill myself before, don't you?"

I manage a strangled chuckle as I realise he's read my thoughts again. "Look, Sherlock, I know this must be hard for you, and I don't want to push you into…"

"When I was fifteen I tried to hang myself in the gymnasium," Sherlock says. His voice is clear, and he sounds almost bored. "I found life… tedious. A PE teacher found me and they took me to hospital. They wanted to lock me up, but Mycroft was an adult by then, and already making a name for himself in high places, so he got me out. On my twenty-first birthday, I deliberately overdosed on heroin. Nobody even knew about it. I woke up maybe days later and found I was still alive."

I begin to apply fresh bandages to his arms, being as gentle as possible so as not to hurt him.

"When I was twenty-five, I jumped off a block of flats," he continues blandly. "I was practically off my head on cocaine, but I knew well enough what I was doing. I broke my back, but I lived. Mycroft was furious. He made me go to hospital, and they tried to give me counselling. I exposed three extra-marital affairs and an illegitimate child. They threw me out after that."

He glances down, as if he'd forgotten I was there. I fasten the last bandage in place, and look up at him, willing him to go on.

"The last time (before Monday, that is), was a few days before I was thirty. My landlady at the time came back unexpectedly early from a trip to Norfolk and found me with my head in her gas oven."

"Oh, Sherlock…"

I have been restraining the impulse, but I can't help it – I reach out and hug him, resting my chin on his shoulder. Then I hear him speak, so quietly that I barely hear it.

"John, why did you leave me?"

I draw back slightly, and observe his white face. His pale eyes search for answers in mine, and I turn away, afraid of what he might guess from my expression.

"Sherlock, I can't really… I don't want to say…"

"I want to know," Sherlock says curtly, and there is a touch of command in his voice, a touch of the old, dominant Sherlock.

I find I am pacing the room, trying desperately to think of a lie that he'll swallow, and knowing there isn't one. I feel regret rise up in my stomach, because today has been amazing, just as being with Sherlock always is, and I can't imagine losing that. I don't want to have to think about life without him, but the alternative is unthinkable. How could I stay here, with him knowing the way I feel about him?

"Please, Sherlock, just leave it, honestly…"

"Tell me!"

I grit my teeth, and turn to face him.

"OK, look Sherlock, the thing is… I… I mean, I've realised… I've realised I feel… I have feelings…"

Sherlock looks perplexed, and I know he's going to interpret what I'm saying wrongly, and drag out the torment, and I know I've got to finish it now. And some, bitter, twisted part of me thinks that if this is the only chance I'm going to get, I may as well make the most of it.

So I wish goodbye to our friendship, march over to the sofa and kiss him on the lips.

Sherlock

John moves towards me suddenly and everything slows down. My words fade and vanish in my throat, my voice giving out with a soft gasp. I feel my heart beating violently and I feel a blush rising to my cheeks. He seems almost to radiate heat, giving off a kind of glow that makes my breathing judder. His presence is like a heady, intoxicating fragrance that I can't escape from.

His lips touch mine, and my mind shuts down.

I had tried to imagine what kissing John might be like, but this is like nothing I could have anticipated. How could I have imagined the tingling burn of his lips on mine, the taste of tea and Oreos? His lips are soft, and warm, and moist, and their touch on mine is enough to make me dissolve into a pool of whimpering pleasure. His hands, so gentle, brush my face; touch my hair, his fingers carding through my dark curls.

My eyes close in bliss, and I stop thinking and just focus on the sensations. They are beyond anything I have ever experienced before, better than cocaine, better than solving a difficult case. This is like flying. It takes my breath away, and my head lolls helplessly as the feel of John's mouth on mine overwhelms me. I know I should respond, but my body has been stunned into some kind of paralysed stupor. I feel dizzy, almost light-headed. I can barely remember my own name, let alone manage coherent, rational thought. Dear God, if I'd known it felt like this, I would have kissed John long ago…

He draws back, and some measure of sanity returns to me, though I still find it difficult to manage words.

And that's when I see that he's crying.

John

Oh God, oh God…

I stagger away from Sherlock, realising that I may have just destroyed our friendship forever. Sure enough, Sherlock looks so lost and bewildered that it brings tears to my tears. What have I done?

Sherlock touches his lips, still looking confused. "No one… No one's ever kissed me before."

"Oh fuck…" I turn away from him, not wanting to see that terrible innocence scrawled on his face, not wanting to see the reminder of what I've just taken from him. Not only have I taken advantage of and violated my friend, but I've also taken his first kiss. Shit, call me a hopeless old fool, but for me, a first kiss is supposed to be something special, sacred. And I've taken it from him, in a moment of selfish greed. And what's worse, I can still taste the deliciousness of his mouth on mine, can still imagine the soft fragrance of his body, the feel of his pale skin. And I still want him, worse than ever, but now I know I can never have him, and that makes the longing even worse.

Sherlock is still watching me, and I can't bear to meet his eyes, to confront the truth of the crime I have committed.

"John… I don't understand…"

He sounds so hurt and baffled that it breaks my heart.

"John…"

"What is there to understand?" I snap, spinning around. "Fuck it, Sherlock – I just kissed you! Doesn't that explain anything?"

"Evidently that tells me that you are attracted to me, but I don't understand why you are crying instead of kissing me again." He pauses, and then speaks quietly, his eyes lowered. "Did I not do it right?" Fear flashes across his face. "I'm sorry – I didn't know what to do…"

My mouth gapes open, and a flicker of hope rises in me before I force myself to shoot it down again.

"Sherlock, if this is just a ploy to get me to stay, then… I'm sorry, and I don't want to leave, but we can't carry on after this, and…"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and tuts at me, and I freeze.

What?

"John, you continue to confound me with your idiocy. I take it my inexperience was not a deterrent, then?"

"Sherlock, what are you talking about? For God's sake…"

"John, must you insist on spouting drivel, or will you consent to kissing me again? Maybe I can improve my technique if I am able to practice."

I stop dead, shocked into silence. "You… You mean…?"

"I've known I was in love with you since yesterday morning, John," Sherlock says tersely. "Really, you must learn to keep up. I understand that intellectually I am obviously superior, but I would have thought even you…oh…"

I rudely interrupt him in the middle of his speech by crashing my lips against his. His hands grab feverishly at my shoulders, drawing me in closer, and I allow myself a delighted grin before lunging in again. I touch his face, those delectable cheekbones, as I have wanted to do for so long…

Sherlock

One moment, John is crying, and the next, he is pinning me to the back of the sofa, and I can't breathe, I can't think, I can only feel, and it's the most wonderful feeling in the world.

John's fingers in my hair.

John's hands, stroking at my cheeks.

John's lips, moving against mine.

John's hand, brushing against my chest…

He draws back again, and I catch my breath. John looks thoroughly charming with his hair messed up, his cheeks flushed. Not to mention with that stupid beaming grin plastered across his face. A moment later, I realise I am exactly the same state – hair falling over my eyes, heart hammering. I'm even wearing the same stupid grin.

John reaches up a hand and brushes it thoughtfully along my cheek, moving a lock of hair, and I shiver again. He smiles.

"John, I said that was my first kiss…"

He nods, a spasm of regret and sorrow passing over his face, but doesn't speak.

"There's no one on Earth I'd rather have kissed first," I say quietly, and squeeze his warm hand.

He grins again. "We've both been idiots, haven't we?"

"Hmmm," I agree. "I was positive you were straight."

He rolls his eyes, smirking. "How could the great Sherlock Holmes miss something like that?"

"You did go out with Sarah," I remind him. "That did throw me a little."

He smiles. "I was trying to distract myself from you. It's not ideal, having a crush on your flatmate, particularly if he's male and seems to have no interest in pursuing a relationship of any kind."

"And? Did it work?"

"Well, you did rather sabotage our first date," John chuckles. "And I found that whenever she was there, try as I might, I couldn't take my eyes off you."

I smile back, because the thought of John thinking about me instead of Sarah gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling in my stomach, and it's nice.

John's fingers reach up again to stroke my hair, and the nice feeling intensifies. I feel like a starving man who has just realised that he has been denied of food all his life, and who has just caught sight of a banquet. I desperately want to touch John, kiss him again, tear off that frankly awful jumper, and yet I can't decide which one to do first, so I stay motionless.

John smiles and settles the matter for me, sliding his body on the sofa so I can tip backwards into his lap, half lying on him, my hair within easy stroking-distance. I watch the upside-down John blearily, wondering whether it would be possible for us to share a bed again tonight. I have decided that waking up with John is wonderful.

"We're going to take this slowly," John murmurs, as if reading my mind, and I smile. "And by the way, you are most certainly too thin. Kissing you is very uncomfortable when you have such terribly jutting, bony hips. I'm going to have to force feed you marshmallows, or something."

I continue to smile, despite not quite knowing what marshmallows are (though I'm sure John will soon remedy this deficiency in my knowledge), because John isn't terribly jutting and bony. He is deliciously muscular and compact, and I want to kiss every inch of him, to observe him and record his reactions. I wonder if John is having similarly immoral thoughts about me, and then try and put the thought out of my mind, because even John kissing me on the mouth is enough to make my brain shut down spontaneously, and I don't want to risk damaging my intellect permanently. At least, not yet.

John runs cautious fingers over the fresh bandages on my arms, and I notice he is frowning. "It's awful something this horrible had to happen for us to realise exactly how we feel about each other," he says softly, and our eyes meet.

"I'm sorry, John," I murmur.

"I'm sorry too." He kisses my left wrist gently, and although the bandage dulls the sensation a good deal, I still feel a bolt of electricity shoot me.

"So you'll be staying here, then?" I ask John teasingly, and he smiles and kisses me briefly on the cheek. Even that's enough to make me forget how to breathe for a moment, and he smirks at my reaction.

"Forever. If you'll have me," John replies, and it's the best answer I could ever hope for.

"Of course I'll have you, you imbecile."

Ooh, I'm so happy and smiley – that's what writing about happy!smiley! Sherlock does to you :)

Thank you to my gorgeously quick-off-the-mark reviewers – XMillieX, Cyberbutterfly, gginsc and Atlin Merrick – honestly you actually did encourage me to up my typing speed :)

XMillieX – you think you've got warm fuzzies? They are practically taking over my brain :) Hope you enjoyed!

Cyberbutterfly – actually I was just trying to think of places you could hide food in a hospital room, and in the pillowcase was the first place I thought of – I'm just strange like that :) And my butt has been truly moved and my promises kept – happy? :)

gginsc – thank you! :)

Atlin Merrick – see, ask and you shall receive! He shall eat marshmallows with John, and be happy :) The kiss is here – hope your brain is still intact :) And by the way, your review actually made me laugh out loud, so thank you for that :D

Not really sure if this is going to carry on any longer, as I thought it could end quite nicely there, but any alternative ideas for epilogues, etc, would be much appreciated!

Please review and tell me if it was OK (I know they were probably both hopelessly OOC every now and again, but it's inevitable with me – I just get carried away!) and your favourite bits!

Much love and Christmas wishes, from ultraviolet128 :) xxx