Prompt: John and Sherlock's first kiss, for the f*ckyeahjohnlockfanfic competition on tumblr. Word limit 1000 to 2000.

A/N: Huge thanks once again to the amazing Ella Greggs for her assistance as beta.

Disclaimer: Moffat is the man. No copyright infringement intended.

"And then I remembered the way she removed her shoes," Sherlock says, expounding on the case he solved not more than two hours ago.

John sits opposite the detective at a small table in Angelo's. Sherlock's voice is deep and close in their corner of the half-empty restaurant. This is not the racing monologue of a deduction in progress. To John it seems he's painting a picture using observations and connections, until every blank spot on the canvas is filled. (There hadn't exactly been time for Sherlock to share the last of the puzzle pieces while they were tearing along the riverbank in the dark.) The detective is showing off, quite frankly, but John doesn't mind being his audience (in fact, he loves it).

"That can tell you a lot about a person," Sherlock continues as he picks up his glass of wine. The pinot noir has added the faintest blush of warmth to his pale cheeks. A small candle flickers innocently between their now-empty plates (Angelo always insists on putting a candle on the table and John no longer bothers to protest). Something inside John can relax now that Sherlock has consumed a proper meal.

"Oh?" John asks, prompting him to go on. He enjoys the timbre of Sherlock's voice almost as much as the leaps of logic. He allows himself to get swept up in the velvety baritone as the tale continues.

The only thing drawing his attention away from the sound is the buzz of his skin where Sherlock's knee rests gently against his own under the table. John wonders if it means anything, if he's doing it on purpose. Surely not. After all, it's Sherlock.

"And that's when I realised the evidence would be under the bridge, John," Sherlock explains. Under the bridge: where Sherlock had asked to borrow his scarf and then proceeded to throw it in the river to test which way the current took it. (John had given his flatmate an earful at the time, but compared to body parts in the kitchen, this barely rates a mention.)

He realises he's been watching Sherlock's adam's apple as it bobs in the white column of his throat. He shifts his eyes back to Sherlock's, then to his pint of beer as he takes another sip.

John keeps his focus on his pint, because the man in front of him is all dark curls and elegant collarbones and nebulous blue eyes, and the desire to stare until he has absorbed every detail is almost overpowering. But he won't. Can't. People will talk, and Sherlock would no doubt have something to say about it as well, he thinks with a cringe. He can't pinpoint when these feelings started, or how or why, and for a bloke, no less, what's that about? All he knows is that he now spends an extraordinary amount of time tamping down inappropriate thoughts.

Both men drain the last of their drinks and then step out of the restaurant's cocoon of warmth into the wintery air. The late hour has reduced the constant roar of London's traffic to a distant rumble. Streetlamps cast pools of yellow light on the footpath, like beacons marking their route home. The icy wind bites at the exposed skin on their faces and wrists, causing Sherlock to turn up his coat collar and tighten the cosy, well-worn scarf around his neck. Their footfalls sound in unison as they head for Baker Street. John hunches his shoulders a little in an unconscious attempt to ward off the weather. Sherlock deftly unwraps the soft fabric from around his throat.

"Here," he says, holding it out to John.

John halts, forcing Sherlock to stop as well, the offering hanging between them.

"Yours is currently at the bottom of the Thames," Sherlock says simply.

On the rare occasions Sherlock actually apologises, it doesn't often involve the word 'sorry'. John figures that must be what's going on and pushes away the feeling that the gesture is oddly romantic. Who is he kidding? It's Sherlock. He accepts the scarf, because it's important to support Sherlock's attempt to make amends (yes, he tells himself, that's the only reason).

John puts on the scarf. It is still warm and bears the scent of its owner. They continue down the street. Sherlock's hand swings between them as they walk, like an open invitation. It's not, of course. John doesn't allow himself to imagine what it would be like to thread his fingers through Sherlock's and walk hand in hand from one puddle of lamplight to the next.

When they get home Sherlock makes for his violin and begins to tune up. John flicks on the kitchen light, but leaves it to the fireplace to cast its buttery glow into the sitting room. Slowly, he removes the scarf. He runs the material through his hands once before hanging it on the hook with Sherlock's coat.

John settles on the couch with his laptop. The violin begins to sing; Tchaikovsky, his favourite (a coincidence, no doubt). Sherlock turns away to stare out the window as he plays. John clicks the computer shut and abandons it on the seat next to him. The flat melts away and he feels like he's hiding in the wings of an empty concert hall during the virtuoso's rehearsal performance. With Sherlock's back to him, John finally gives in to the magnetic force that is forever pulling his eyes back to Sherlock.

John drinks in the play of muscles in Sherlock's arms and shoulders as they move with every flourish of the bow, his close-fitting shirt only serving to accentuate the physique beneath it. John's eyes wander to the black locks curled against Sherlock's collar, then down to the pale, graceful fingers wrapped around the strings. His eyes continue downwards.

Sherlock's unfathomably long legs are obscured somewhat by his tailored trousers, but John knows more than he should about what's beneath them. He complains, like any good flatmate, when Sherlock wanders about naked, but he's saved those images in a private corner of his own mind palace (he is, after all, only human).

It's the memory of those sharp hip bones that drive him to distraction. That, and the thought of how they would feel under his palm...

John knows he needs to stop staring. Sherlock could turn and catch him at any moment, but the risk of getting caught just makes it all the more intoxicating. It's dangerous to even think, the way Sherlock seems to be able to pluck the thoughts right out of his head.

As if on cue, Sherlock whirls suddenly into the glare of John's hungry gaze.

Sherlock swiftly crosses the room, depositing the violin somewhere along the way without ever breaking eye contact. In an instant he's kneeling beside John, one hand cupping the side of his neck, the other resting on his thigh. His pupils are blown wide with want, and John realises he's been a fool, because Sherlock Holmes never does a single thing he doesn't mean to.

Sherlock draws closer until John can feel warm breath against his lips. The moment grows pregnant and it occurs to John that Sherlock might not have done this before, or at least not often. He is about to close the gap between them, but Sherlock gets there first. The kiss is gentle, almost tentative, and John is held transfixed. Sherlock, stunning and self-reliant Sherlock, who works so hard to keep everyone out, is inviting him in. It fills John with an awe so pervasive he forgets to breathe. He slips his arms protectively around the other man, certain his heart is about to burst. He resists the urge to crush their mouths together and returns the kiss with tender caution, but Sherlock catches on quickly. He parts his lips willingly and welcomes John's tongue into his mouth. John entwines his fingers in a handful of dark curls, daring his disbelief to stand up to the evidence: the sight, smell, touch and taste of Sherlock Holmes, pressed against him. Soon Sherlock's tongue is exploring John's mouth, carefully at first (he's cataloguing the findings, John's sure of it) then with increasing fervour until his kisses match the heat John had seen in his eyes.

John's heart is pounding in his ears and it's like he's tearing down a riverbank in the dark for the second time that night, running headlong into something he's not sure he understands. But it doesn't matter, because it's thrilling and it's with Sherlock and that's all he needs to know.