John wakes up with a start when the sitting room door bangs open with an unholy crash. Heart thundering, he has a hand curled around the grip of his gun and is crouched behind his bedroom door when he hears Sherlock's somewhat slurred baritone drifting up the stairs.

"I told ya I was trouble, you know that I'm no good..."

John groans, stuffing the gun back in his bedside drawer and steeling himself for whatever he'll find waiting for him downstairs. He makes it to the sitting room and flicks the desk light on to see Sherlock start guiltily and try to push his phone in his pocket.

"Ah, John! I was, well," he looks around, lost. "Well, I was here. Am here."

"Good God, Sherlock, it's the unholy hour of 2 'o clock, you could at least have the decency to be quiet when you get in." John takes note of Sherlock's rumpled, untucked shirt, glassy eyes, and swaying body and groans internally. "Sherlock, are you drunk?"

"Me? Oh, no, not really, I mean well, perhaps a little. A smidge." He looks up from where he's balancing on one foot trying to untie his shoe, holds his thumb and first finger up to his eye about an inch apart and looks through them. In his inebriated state it puts him off balance enough that he pitches forward, heading for the floor. John lunges for him, grabbing him up under the arms and holding him there a moment, trying to both smother the laugh he can feel bubbling up and ignore the warm breath on his neck, before maneuvering him backward toward the couch. John figures he better get him lying down before he hurts himself.

"Oh John, always so reliable, yes, reliable; that's you, John. Yep." Sherlock sits down with the ponderous dignity of the profoundly intoxicated, and blinks up at him with a smile.

John rolls his eyes Heavenward, begging for patience or at least release from the farce his life seems to have become. "I thought you'd gone to do work for that Lashbrook case. You never drink when you're on a case, Hell, you don't even eat when you're on a case-" John stops. That's the gist of it. Sherlock, the idiot, went out and had a few on an empty stomach, probably not even considering how quickly the alcohol would course through his system without food to help slow it down.

"Nope, you're wrong. Wrong!" Sherlock sing-songs. Christ, he can even pull off mind-reading while plastered, John thinks. Oh, how bloody excellent. "I went to the Horse and Crown because Jen Lashbrook had been seen there multiple times in the last month, always chatting up new man. Everyone thought she was looking for an affair; she wasn't. She was looking for some poor tosser she could manipulate into killing her husband for her."

John nodded, somewhat impressed that Sherlock even had some coherent thought left. "Still doesn't explain the drinking."

"Oh, just a way to ingratiate myself. Doesn't do to have a man sitting in a pub with nothing to hand. Draws attention." Sherlock slumps sideways, laying his head on the pillow. John shakes his head, pats Sherlock's shoulder, and starts looking around for the paracetamol he's sure was somewhere in the sitting room. "Mark found me the loveliest thing, though. Vodka, um, gimlets! Yes. They were quite good." Sherlock's voice is a bit muffled by the pillow, but John is pretty sure he caught that last bit correctly.

"Mark, was it?" he asks casually. He can't imagine Sherlock letting anyone buy him a drink, much less a man. Married to his work, and all that, which has kept John firmly in hands-off mode since he met him. Jealousy starts to coil in his gut, but he tamps it down, waiting to see what other little revelations Sherlock might come out with.

"Yes, Mark, the anthropologist. He offered to let me examine a skull thousands of years old, thinks it might have been a murder victim." Sherlock's eyes slowly drift shut. Probably hoping the room stops spinning, John thinks, and hates Mark a little bit. He finally finds the paracetamol and puts it with a glass of water on the table. He picks up Sherlock's feet from the floor and swings them up on the couch.

"Anything else Mark want?"

"Wanted to take me home," Sherlock mumbles. "Told him to leave off. Don't like men. Least, I don't think I do. And even if I did, wouldn't want him." His eyes open, staring off past John's shoulder. "Never thought about it before," he continues, as if he's talking to himself. "Besides, if I ever wanted a man, it'd prob'ly be John. Dr. John Watson, that's who. Worth ten of Mark, even with the skulls."

John sits stunned trying to process that last slurred sentence, when Sherlock bolts upright, face deathly pale, and slaps a hand over his mouth. If he gets sick on the carpet, John thinks grimly as he thrusts a 2 liter glass beaker he found next to the table under Sherlock's wan and sweaty face, so help me, I'll take that severed arm out of the fridge and beat him with it.

...

Sherlock wakes up the next day to an early spring sun filtering through the curtains in the sitting room. He moans piteously, holding his head in his hands. Did hangovers always feel like this? His head ached, his stomach was clenching, and his mouth and throat felt raw and tight and covered in fur. Must have smoked recently, by the taste of it, but where did I get a cigarette? He kept a few with him most of the time, just in case, but he'd given them out to his homeless network in exchange for information the day before and he hadn't replenished them. Oh! Mark! Yes, Mark the anthropologist that wanted to get into his trousers. Mark of the grabby hands and endless cigarette supply and vodka gimlets. He'd chatted Sherlock up at the bar, where he had been waiting to talk to someone about Jen Lashbrook. He had only responded in order to keep from drawing attention to himself, but when he found out about Mark's profession, he was interested in spite of himself. Just didn't expect to be propositioned in the toilets. He moans again as a wave of nausea hits him and rolls onto his side, spying a glass of water and bottle of paracetamol on the table.

John.

Oh, John, you prince among men, Sherlock thinks, gratefully swallowing down some pills. It's so incredibly useful to have a doctor around. John Watson, brave and loyal and stalwart, calm in a crisis, utterly reliable for hangover cures. Reliable. Snatches of conversation are coming back to him as the painkiller clears his head. John, so reliable. If I ever wanted a man, it would probably be John.

Oh hell.

"Good morning, Sunshine," John cracks, as he sweeps into the room. Never has his timing been worse than at that moment. Sherlock wants some time to process, work through whatever it was he said, analyze and understand. He's not entirely sure anything untoward was said, from what he can remember, and besides, John seems fairly normal this morning. Too much in his head to engage right now.

"Hmph." Sherlock flops back over on the couch and wishes he hadn't. His stomach is still nauseous, and the sudden movement is jarring. He tries, and fails, to bite back a groan.

"That bad, is it?" John is annoyingly cheerful at his plight. "Well, give your vodka-soaked liver a rest and I'm sure you'll get over it."

…

Besides, if I ever wanted a man, it'd prob'ly be John. Dr. John Watson, that's who.

Those words, over and over, run through his mind. Sherlock isn't sure from what angle he should analyze. Did he want a man, and if so, did he really want that man to be John? Sherlock isn't sure he ever really considered it before. John is overtly bisexual, makes no bones about it, wouldn't find a romantic declaration by a man alarming in any way. A declaration by him, Sherlock, would probably cause some pause, though.

Would it? He isn't so sure that it would. He's caught John giving him sidelong, appraising looks when he thought Sherlock wasn't watching, but that's about it.

Well, when one is unsure what to do, the best course of action can be to do nothing.

Which is good. Because he plans to do nothing.

Starting now.

…..

Sherlock is sure John was taught torture techniques in medical school. It's the only explanation.

How else could he explain feeling like he had all of the breath knocked from his body when he swept in one evening to see John standing by the fireplace, the rest of the room mostly in darkness, his skin golden and soft in the firelight? Why the jittery feeling in his stomach when John asks him to take off his shirt in order to tend to a cut on his arm from a knife-wielding assassin? John's touched him dozens of times and yet…this. John doesn't even seem to be aware of any untoward currents, simply fitting the dressing over his arm as he's done numerous times before, and sending him off with a "Try not to let it happen again soon, alright? I'm low on gauze," and a smile and a pat on his shoulder.

He can't even be in the same vicinity as John without feeling this intolerable awareness between them, almost painfully aware of quivering receptors following him about the room. He didn't ask for this, isn't sure he wants it, but here it is, with a vengeance. Sherlock needs some breathing space, time to get away, to process. So he takes the only action he can.

He runs away.

…

Two days, one quick case for Dimmock, and a kip in one of his bolt holes later, Sherlock decides.

He needs John.

There's nothing else to be done, nothing to be surrendered, and everything to be gained. He never really thought of his sexuality in such concrete terms as to make him completely disregard a relationship with a man, but he certainly had disregarded it enough to not consider sex with anyone at all. Yes, his previous experiences had all been women, but that was mostly based on convenience and assumed interest at the time (with the exception of Mary – she had been clever and quick, a fellow chemistry student, and they taught each other a great deal).

He relaxes on his walk back to Baker Street and lets his mind think of John. John of the soft jumpers and softer smile. John, with the utterly silly giggle, finding a dark sort of humor in things others would find grisly and disturbing. John, who keeps after Sherlock to eat, to sleep, to stop using more than 3 nicotine patches at a time, who makes tea and keeps milk in the fridge. Who can spot him in a lie, no matter how small. Who can reach for the sugar and leave Sherlock twitching with the need to touch him.

Sherlock grins, ready for home, and firelight, and tea; the sharp tang of chemicals and the underlying warmth of someone else in the world to share his burdens with.

…

Somewhere on the way up the stairs at the flat, it occurs to Sherlock that perhaps it would be a good idea to find out if John reciprocates his feelings. Other than an occasional appreciative glance when Sherlock's been forced into tuxedos or the like, John's been generally inscrutable regarding any potential interest since their first conversation at Angelo's.

That's not necessarily a hindrance, though. Sherlock is sure once he explains himself, John would be more than happy to move their friendship into a more intimate sphere. He opens the door to the sitting room to find John sitting in the arm chair, reading the paper, the television playing softly in the background.

"All finished then?" John inquires over the top of the paper.

Sherlock is taken aback. That's…not quite what he expected. "Sorry?"

"I asked if you're finished. Sorting through your sudden change of heart."

Sherlock is rarely, if ever, at a loss for words, but he gapes at John and gestures helplessly, mouth closing with a snap once he realizes no sound is coming out.

John simply shakes his head fondly, folds the paper, puts it on the nearby table, and rises. He crosses the room to stand directly in front of a still-silent Sherlock. "You would have to sort this all out. Couldn't leave it alone." He raises soft calloused fingers to the curve of Sherlock's jaw and rests them there cautiously, waiting.

Sherlock revels in the touch. Warm hands, a slight hint of aftershave and coffee, and he aches. Oh, he aches and he wants and turns his lips into that palm and kisses softly. John shudders lightly and exhales a shaky breath.

"I know you, Sherlock. I knew you'd get there, or not, in your own time. I was fairly sure you'd never been with a man, or even considered it. What chance would I have, even so? God, just look at you…"

Sherlock preens under the attention, heat coursing through his body. He stretches a hand out, wraps it around John's neck and pulls him in. "Don't be ridiculous," he growls. "I've made up my mind, now. And regardless of what I said before, I want you." Sherlock swoops down, capturing John's mouth in a searing kiss, moving his mouth insistently until he finds the angle that fits. He can feel the beginnings of a five'o'clock shadow on John's top lip, which is momentarily odd, but who can focus on that when John's mouth tastes like the answer to ten thousand questions that were always on the tip of his tongue?

John groans and slides his hands up the back of Sherlock's jacket, flattening his palms against the soft shirt. Once he gains purchase, he uses his leverage to pull Sherlock in, press his body against him, and deepen the kiss to something just past passionate, something with intent. Sherlock breaks the kiss with a gasp. This is…a lot. Quite a lot, actually, to take in at one time. John pulls back and looks him in the eye.

"Process time?" he asks, panting, with his hands still under Sherlock's shoulder blades. Sherlock nods, barely trusting his own body to stand on it's own. John sits down with his back against the arm of the sofa and pats the space between his legs. Sherlock eyes him for a moment, until John puts a pillow on his lap and smiles. "Better?"

Yes, Sherlock thinks. Better not to feel John's obvious erection pressing into his back. He settles into the space between John's thighs, and relaxes back against him, allowing his head to rest on John's chest. It's comfortable, and warm . John strokes a patient hand through Sherlock's curls.

"Don't know why you're so worried. Should be me that's worried, eh?" He chuckles. "People will think I've gone mad, taking you on."

Sherlock grunts. "I'm aware of how difficult I can be. So are you, for that matter. This could be a patently terrible idea. I won't change, you know. No romantic dinners or weekends with your sister."

"Sherlock, I don't even want weekends with my sister, so don't worry about it. I don't want you to change. But I do know that one drunken confession does not a relationship make."

Sherlock flips over and hovers over John's body, hands on either side of his torso. "John, do keep up. It's always been a relationship. Just because we add sex to the equation doesn't make it any more of one."

He leers, and John visibly swallows. "That so? Well, if you're so intent that sex won't change anything, you won't mind if I get rid of this thing." John reaches down to where the pillow is sandwiched between their bodies, and pulls. Ever up for a challenge, Sherlock's body drops down, his achingly hard cock suddenly in solid contact with John's jeans-clad erection. He squirms against the sensation, working out the best shift and slide to get maximum pleasure.

"Sherlock, Jesus, you've got to stop that-" John groans beneath him. "We've got time, it's – shit – it's not a sprint." Sherlock studiously ignores him until John sits up abruptly, dumping Sherlock over onto the couch and standing up in front of him, flushed.

"Well, once you've made your mind up, you don't hesitate, do you? Holy hell." He points at Sherlock, who is smirking on the sofa and feeling more than a bit pleased with himself. "If I keel over in the middle, we all know who's to blame." Sherlock grins, wickedly. Suprising John and keeping him a bit off-balance is much more fun than he ever thought it would be. "Well, if you're that keen, come on then." John starts backing away from the couch, and Sherlock gives him a quizzical look. "What, too slow? Too bad, I may just have to take care of myself then, if you're not going to help." John makes a break for the stairs, and Sherlock, suddenly realizing the game, darts after him. Touche, John, he thinks, as he pounds up the stairs to John's room, a laughing John just two steps ahead of him. Looks like he has a bit of balancing to do, himself.

…..

Sherlock follows on John's heels through the doorway, and once they're inside, Sherlock realizes how much more…intimate it is. John's bedroom is small; there's barely room for the two of them to stand together. John reaches for him, a hand on his hip pulling him in closer.

"Come on then, genius," he whispers, voice gone dark with desire. "Where's all that bravado gone? "

Sherlock smirks. It's not in his nature to be intimidated by the unknown, and even though he's never had sex with a man, that doesn't mean he's never had sex at all. The principle's the same, even if the logistics are a bit different. So he wraps his hands in turn around John's hips and pulls him flush, attacking John's neck with kisses and love bites, some of which might mark, but John doesn't seem to care.

"Yes," he hisses, letting his head fall to the side. Sherlock slips his hands up under John's shirt, feeling the muscles of his obliques and pelvis, slipping his fingers against soft skin and the little trail of soft hair just above his waistband. John starts to step backward, maneuvering them onto his bed, and Sherlock falls willingly, not wanting to stop kissing John, touching him. John looks a bit dazed, but seems content to let Sherlock explore. He wants more of this, more skin, more heat, so he pulls John's shirt over his head. He starts on his own buttons when John puts a hand out to stop him.

"Oh, no you don't. I've had way too many fantasies about undressing you to miss the chance now." Sherlock stares. Had he, really? How interesting. Rational thought deserts him in a rush at the feel of John's hands smoothing over his chest, pushing his shirt away from his shoulders, kissing the hollow of his throat. They're kneeling together, facing each other now, and Sherlock feels John's hands move to his belt, loosening his trousers, and pushing his hands under the waistband to cup the curve of his arse. He jerks his hips forward, hissing at the contact.

John pushes his trousers and shorts down, freeing his erection to the cool air. He stares, licks his bottom lip, and closes his eyes. He presses Sherlock gently on the shoulder in a wordless request to lie down, which he does, complying as quickly as he can, waiting to see what John might have in mind.

John looks down at him with eyes deep with desire and almost disbelief, and reaches out a shaking hand to brush fingertips against the head of Sherlock's cock. The spike of pure pleasure chokes a gasp from Sherlock's throat. John smiles, settling on his side, his hand still lightly caressing, not yet giving the heat and pressure Sherlock is craving. Sherlock knows John is trying to ease him into it, but it's all he can do to remain coherent in the swirl of sensation wrapping around him , and when John teases along the shaft again, he groans, begging. "Yes, yes, please - " John's hand tightens, slipping over him, grasping and twisting, thumbing over the head , and just as Sherlock feels like his actual, literal brain might explode from the pressure of it, he hears John's groan of surrender, a whispered "Oh, fuck it all," and a wet heat wrapping around his prick and fingers caressing his balls and he comes, keening, one long exclamation of John's name before he submits to the darkness.

…

It's only a few seconds before he opens his eyes, with John's face still showing stunned arousal and a drop of what looks like semen on his chin. Sherlock reaches out and touches it, feeling somewhat stunned himself. It's never been quite this intense. Pleasurable, yes, but never so…overwhelming. He relaxes, closing his eyes.

"Come out of that head of yours, " John says gently, somewhat timidly. "Are you all right? I mean, was it…okay, that I did that?" A twist of annoyance at his continued solicitude flits through his mind. John is still very obviously hard, so Sherlock quickly reaches out to flick open the button on his jeans, pulling them down quickly. John almost topples over with the shock, cursing when Sherlock gets a hand on him. He strokes roughly, eyeing John's cock and speculating just how to go about sucking it, as it frankly looks mouthwatering and he wants it. He reaches his tongue out to lick the head, and John does lose focus then, falling backward, his head hanging off of the foot of the bed. As Sherlock manages to fit as much of him as he can in his mouth and starts to move in earnest, he hears John pant, "If you ever do manage to see that Mark again, let me know. I want to buy him a drink."