A/N: This is a birthday gift for prettybirdy979, even though her birthday was more than two weeks ago. I'm *so* sorry that I'm such a dreadfully slow writer, even when the story is less than 3,000 words xD. At any rate... HAPPY BIRTHDAY, my friend!

Many thanks to maladroitoracle for the beta, and also to overthemoon who suggested several ideas for the title, including the one I actually chose. You're both the best. *hugs*

This doesn't take place during any specific time-frame. There's a subtle reference to something that could have happened during TSoT, but it could also be referring to something else entirely. So no Series 3 spoilers. Enjoy!

December 31

Sherlock has his coat and scarf on and is already out the door before he realises that nobody's following him. He turns around and goes back into the flat. He makes a disgusted sound when he sees that John is still sitting in his chair, face hidden by a newspaper.

"You aren't ready. Why aren't you ready?" Sherlock demands.

"Ready for what?" John asks, unmoved by his friend's petulant tone.

Sherlock sighs heavily. "For the Yard's New Year's Eve party, of course. I was given to understand that it's a night for celebration. You've gone the past two years, I assumed you'd want to go tonight as well."

John lowers the newspaper and looks up at his flatmate. He blinks. "You never expressed interest in going before, so I figured this year would be no different. I thought we could both have a quiet evening in this time."

"Nonsense. Don't be an old fuddy-duddy, John, you're much too young for that. Besides, I already told Lestrade we were providing the champagne. Hurry up, John! Go throw something suitable on and let's go."

John remains frozen in his chair. His eyes stare unfocussed at nothing as he silently mouths 'fuddy-duddy'. Sherlock rolls his eyes, then stamps his foot.

"John! The taxi will be here any minute, let's go."

"Alright, alright, just - why now?"

"What do you mean, why - because the party starts in half an hour, and we still have to pick up the champagne."

"No, I mean - why now? When you never cared to go before?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Does it matter? You'll work it out, eventually. Right now you have to get dressed so we can leave."

John quickly obeys, like he always does when Sherlock gives him a direct order.

Soon enough, all concerns except for enjoying themselves melt away. It's a brilliant party, with dancing and drinks and enough food to feed fifty people for a week. It's objectively no different from any of the other New Year's Eve parties that John has been to at NSY, but somehow this year the experience is more - satisfying. He's not able to work out what the difference is - not yet.

January 29

They're both in the sitting room, bent on their respective tasks. John taps away at a snail's pace on his laptop, writing up his latest blog entry. Sherlock lies on the sofa, eyes trained on his mobile as his thumbs work their magic. The view outside is a gloomy one, typical for this time of year; grey clouds skitter across the sky and snow spits against the window pane. The fireplace contains a merrily crackling fire, lending cheer to the charmingly domestic scene. Silence wraps around the two men like a comfortable blanket.

Unsurprisingly, it's the detective who breaks that silence. He clears his throat.

"John, would you like to accompany me to dinner tonight?"

Sherlock's odd wording doesn't seem to faze his friend. John continues typing as he responds.

"Sure, how about Angelo's? We haven't been there for a few weeks."

Sherlock sits up, properly facing the doctor. He places his phone on the coffee table. "Actually, I thought we could try something a bit more - upscale. My treat, of course."

John smirks as he peers at Sherlock over his laptop. "Of course, seeing how half of the places we eat at owe you a favour and feed us for free."

Sherlock shakes his head. "Not this one. I've had my eye on it for a while, but I've been waiting for the right occasion. I think tonight qualifies, if you're amenable."

John tilts his head, considering. "Do I have to dress fancy?"

Sherlock waves his hand. "Not really, you just need a jacket and tie. I know for a fact that you have several suitable options to choose from. And no jeans, of course."

"No - Sherlock! You know very well that I do laundry on Saturdays; the only clean trousers I have right now are jeans."

"Mrs Hudson did all your laundry this morning while we were out. She owed me a favour."

John blinks. "Mrs Hudson owed you a favour, so you asked her to do my laundry?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's - thank you, I guess?"

"Don't mention it." Sherlock picks his phone up and starts punching buttons. "How does seven o'clock sound?"

John glances at his watch. "Perfect, actually. Plenty of time to wrap this entry up plus finish the final chapter of my book before we get ready."

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. "You mean that book by Tom Clancy you've been reading? You don't need to finish it, I can tell you right now what happens -"

John holds up a hand. "Don't. Just stop, Sherlock; I've got this far without you ruining it for me, I'd like to finish it that way, if you don't mind."

Sherlock sighs and flops back onto the sofa, arm draped across his forehead as if he were a swooning Victorian damsel in distress. "Fine. Wake me a half hour before we have to leave."

John rolls his eyes at the dramatics, but his mouth curves in a smile.

Later that night they stroll back into Baker Street, stuffed to the gills and slightly tipsy. There's no adrenalin coursing through their veins due to a late-night chase. Rather, contentment washes over them both as they walk through the door of their shared flat. They give each other a small smile as they part for their separate bedrooms. John is halfway up the stairs when he stops mid-step, a small frown creasing his forehead. It's like he knows he's missing something, but he has no idea what. After a moment of contemplation, he shrugs and continues on his way.

February 14

Sherlock stands in the entrance to the kitchen, watching John cook breakfast. He clutches something in his right hand. Sweat trickles down his brow despite the cool temperature of the flat.

"John?" he asks softly.

"Yes, Sherlock?" John replies in a heavy voice. He doesn't turn around. The bacon in the pan in front of him starts to sizzle as the grease heats up.

"Did you… that is… Do you have any plans for tonight?"

"Not anymore. Lisa cancelled on me yesterday when she decided to get back together with her ex."

"Excellent!"

John does turn around then, and fixes his flatmate with a deathly glare.

"Sorry, I - I didn't mean - what I'm trying to say is that I bought these before you started seeing her, and after you started dating I figured it was wasted money after all, but now that you're free you can come, if you want to. Since you no longer have other plans."

John closes his eyes and sighs; Sherlock winces. "I'm sorry," he repeats.

John opens his eyes, his look resigned. "Not your fault, Sherlock. So what is it that you wanted to drag me to against my will this time, because I swear if it's the London Symphony again, I'll - "

"I got tickets to Frankenstein," Sherlock blurts out. He thrusts what he's been holding in John's face. "I realise you're not normally a theatre-loving man, but I know how much you like that Cumberbatch chap, and it's getting rave reviews from all the critics, so I thought we could go. The two of us, together. Tonight."

John grabs the tickets out of Sherlock's hand and drinks them in. His eyes dance with delight. "Oh my God. Oh my God! Sherlock Holmes, I could kiss you right now."

Sherlock's face lights up. "Really?" he squeaks. Flushing, he clears his throat and repeats, in a much manlier voice, "Really?"

John grins and reaches out to clasp his shoulder. "Figure of speech, mate." Sherlock's face falls, but John is too distracted to notice. His fingers ghost over the printing on the tickets.

"Lovely," he breathes. "Jonny is playing the monster this time. Oh, this is going to be brilliant. Let me pull up some YouTube videos, Sherlock, and I'll show you what all the fuss is about." John turns to step out of the kitchen, but Sherlock clamps a hand around his arm.

"I think you'd best attend to your breakfast before it burns," Sherlock says, voice laced with amusement.

"Oh shit!" John hands the tickets to Sherlock and rushes back to the cooker, just in time to save his eggs from becoming a charred mess. The bacon, on the other hand, is a lost cause. John lifts up the shrivelled black remnants, face sad and lower lip sticking out. That's apparently the last straw, because it's then that Sherlock breaks out in contagious giggles. John joins him a minute later, helpless to resist. Before long, the two of them are wiping tears from their eyes and trying desperately to regain their composure before their landlady decides to make an appearance and demand to know what all the fuss is about so early in the morning.

Once they calm down, John smiles at Sherlock, eyes shining. "Thank you for the tickets, Sherlock. I've been wanting to see that play for months. It's convenient having a partner who can tell what it is I want without me having to say a word. What time is the show?"

Sherlock doesn't say anything for a full sixty seconds. He just stares at John like he's some rare treasure he's not seen before and will never willingly relinquish.

"Sherlock?" John asks, amused. "Did I break you again, somehow? Earth to Sherlock." He snaps his fingers in front of his face. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock blinks, then shakes himself. "Sorry, I - the show? It's, er - it starts at eight."

John rubs his hands together. "Splendid. What do you say we make a night of it? Let's have dinner beforehand. Since you paid for the show, I'll pay for our meal. What's your pleasure?"

"Er… I…."

John laughs. "Hard drive slow to reboot this morning? That's okay, you have the whole day to think about it. Just keep the dress code reasonable and you'll be alright."

"Partner."

"Sorry?"

"You called me your partner."

"Of course I did. We're business colleagues, partners in crime - not to mention flatmates and best friends. We're partners in almost every sense of the word!"

"Almost," Sherlock murmurs, just low enough to escape John's notice.

March 7

Sherlock steeples his hands in front of his chin, his default position these days, and stares at absolutely nothing. He's been known to sit like this for hours, so when John comes home after work to find him in the same place he was that morning when he left, he doesn't even react. He just lugs the grocery bags into the kitchen and manoeuvres around his unmoving flatmate.

"Busy day?" John asks as he puts the food away. Sherlock grunts, the first sound he's made since the previous evening. "Really. That busy, eh?" John deadpans.

Sherlock rises suddenly, his chair scraping the tile as it skids backwards. John jumps at the sudden movement. Sherlock walks over to John, looms over him and looks right into his eyes.

John swallows. "What?" he asks.

"Do you know what today is, John?"

"Er - Friday?"

"The Friday after Ash Wednesday. Once known as Kissing Friday. The custom no longer exists, but on Kissing Friday, schoolboys were entitled to a kiss from the partner of their choice, with no fear of retribution or rejection. It was known as Nippy Hug Day in Leicestershire, where if a man was denied his kiss, he had the right to pinch the object of his desire's bum." Sherlock grins, wolfish and all teeth. John shrinks away until he feels the counter pressed against his back.

Sherlock's grin fades. "Tell me, John - if I tried to kiss you, what would happen? Would you let me? Or would you rather me pinch your behind instead? You have to let me do one or the other. It's Kissing Friday, after all."

John places a hand on Sherlock's chest. "I - this is coming a bit out of nowhere, isn't it?"

Sherlock places his own hand on John's cheek. "Not at all. If you'd been paying the slightest bit of attention, you would have noticed the signs leading up to it. As always, you see but do not observe."

With that, Sherlock lowers his head and captures John's lips in a kiss. John lets him.

After a moment, Sherlock pulls back. He steps away, and melts into the shadows. Just like that, he's gone.

John touches his fingers to his lips. He turns and stares at the calendar posted on the fridge. He flips through the previous pages, pausing for a few seconds each month, until he reaches December. His eyes dart from side to side, mirroring Sherlock's habit when he's in the midst of making mental connections. When the light-bulb finally comes on, he groans and smacks himself on the forehead.

"I've been an idiot," he says to the empty room. The silence doesn't contradict him.

"Sherlock? Look, I'm really sorry; I've been blind, deaf and incredibly dumb. Please forgive me?"

John stands at Sherlock's closed bedroom door, wringing his hands and fidgeting. The detective disappeared two hours ago and hasn't made a peep since. It's only nine o'clock; Sherlock never retires for the night earlier than midnight. John thought that his friend was only trying to give him the space and time he needed to work out and come to terms with Sherlock's recent behaviour; now he thinks there might be a bit more to it than that.

John knocks again. "Come on, Sherlock. Use that great brain of yours. I let you kiss rather than pinch me; what can you deduce about that, hmm?"

A shuffling sound comes from the other side of the door. John steps back, and the door slowly opens. Sherlock stands in the entryway, arms crossed and posture rigid.

John smiles. He says, "It was important to you this past New Year's for us to celebrate together. Staying at home might have been fine, but you wanted to make a public statement of sorts. Then there was the anniversary of our first meeting. Sorry about being so slow on the uptake with that one."

Sherlock's mouth twitches. His arms fall to his sides and his shoulders relax.

"Valentine's Day - that's self-explanatory, of course. Then there's today." John shakes his head and laughs, eliciting a bashful smile from Sherlock. "Leave it to you to pick an obscure holiday for our first kiss."

"If today was our first kiss, does that mean there will be others to follow?" Sherlock asks.

"Do you want there to be?"

Sherlock gives him The Look. "What do you think?" he asks.

"I think that you have the strangest courting technique known to man. Or woman, for that matter. That said, it's also quite endearing."

Sherlock makes a disgusted face. "That's not exactly what I was going for," he says.

"It was honest. You didn't try to manipulate me, which I appreciate more than you know. It's not your fault that I was so… "

"Unobservant?" Sherlock supplies helpfully.

John punches his arm. "I was going to say oblivious, you git. But that works too. I never expected that you would feel this way about me, so I didn't see what was right in front of me."

Sherlock frowns. "Expectation has nothing to do with observation. The act of observing is entirely objective. Over time what you see conforms to certain patterns, and from that you draw conclusions and make deductions -"

"Deduce this." John surges forward and grabs Sherlock by the back of the neck. He pulls the detective's head down and graces him with a heated kiss. Sherlock stiffens in surprise before putting his arms around John and returning the kiss with gusto. What Sherlock lacks in finesse he makes up for in spades with his enthusiasm; the two of them battle for dominance for several minutes before they have to come up for air. They stand with foreheads touching as they catch their breath.

John huffs with laughter. "Taking into account that I'm not gay, that was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"Taking into account that you're not strictly straight, I'd say that it was a long time coming."

John pulls back so that he can look Sherlock in the eye. "Yeah," he says softly, stroking Sherlock's cheek. "I really think it was."

Sherlock smiles, eyes warm and fond. He holds out his hand. John clasps it. They turn as one and Sherlock pulls John into his bedroom. John follows, as always, closing the door with a soft click.

It's not until the sun is high in the sky the next day that the door opens again.

END NOTES:

Kissing Friday is, or rather was, an actual thing. Apparently I can't include links here, but if you google "Kissing Friday" you'll be able to read about it.

I'm not sure if the term 'fuddy-duddy' is an Americanism or not, but I sniggered to myself when I imagined Sherlock saying it in his oh-so-posh voice, so I went ahead and used it. It just means a 'stick-in-the-mud', or a dull old-fashioned person who doesn't know how to have fun. If it *is* an Americanism, just imagine that Sherlock picked it up on his travels during his - 'time away'.