John returned to 221b from a night out disgruntled and obviously frustrated. Sherlock looked up from the article he was reading to eye his army doctor, but John didn't so much as greet him before going into the kitchen to make himself some tea. Sherlock allowed the silence until it was brewed, John taking his mug and sitting down in his usual chair with a tired sigh. Then Sherlock put his article down and stared very pointedly.

"I take it the evening did not go as you intended," Sherlock remarked, eyes going from John's hands to his hair and finally his lips, the bottom slightly redder then the top. It hadn't started out as a bad evening, apparently.

"Yeah, you could say that," John replied. Sherlock watched as John brought the mug to his lips, taking a sip of his tea before sitting it down on the table in front of him. She had bitten his lip, hence the redness; was that actually appealing to John or something done out of spite? Would be interesting to test.

"Doesn't appear the entire night was a waste," Sherlock continued, leaning forward with eyes still heavily focused on John's face. Though John was used to staring, this level of attentiveness made even him slightly uncomfortable. "What happened?"

John sighed again, shaking his head. "Mycroft kept texting me," he explained, casting a blaming look towards his flatmate. "He's still pestering me about that bloody Ambassador you refuse to find. And I wouldn't silence my phone because…" he trailed off for a moment before finally shrugging, not willing to put his near constant worry for Sherlock into words, "Well, I just try not to silence my phone. So she seemed to think it was another woman texting me, and once that-"

"Do you enjoy odaxelagnia?" Sherlock suddenly asked, cutting John off from his dull explanation. He stood then, coming over to John and leaning one knee on the space between John's thigh and the armrest of the chair, studying the man's face closely and making John automatically reel back.

"W-what?" John questioned, his heart rate increasing. Promising.

"It's the technical term for pleasure derived from biting," Sherlock explained, eyes dropping to John's lips again. They were slightly parted as John's confusion made finding words difficult, perfectly suited for Sherlock to push his own against them, but he restrained.

After a moment John managed to get out, "Uh, why are you asking?" That was a yes then.

Their faces were close enough that Sherlock could feel a slight tickling sensation when John breathed on his cheek, and the next few moments played out in his head like a film: Sherlock leans in, presses his lips to John's, soft and the faint taste of tea lingering. John responds after a moment of confusion, perhaps pushes Sherlock's face closer even, Sherlock running in tongue over the flesh of John's mouth just to feel it, John's body creating an automatic aroused response. But then when they had to pull away, John would panic, his heterosexuality thrown into a chaotic and confused state. He would retreat, the action too sudden, increase his dating attempts with renewed vigor, move in with a girl earlier than he typically would in his haste to escape Sherlock's now obvious interest. Final analysis: he'd lose John. Not tonight then.

"Merely a question," Sherlock replied nonchalantly, removing his leg from the chair and standing up straight. Not tonight, but some day. All theories must be tested eventually.