Years later he would deny it, but after reading Sherlock's last text, he sprinted home, anxious to see if Sherlock meant what he thought he meant, meanwhile sweating his intoxication out quite easily. He didn't even bother (or rather, he forget in the heat of the moment) to hail a cab, making him standing completely out of breath before their front door. He took a couple of seconds to recover, taking some deep breaths, before bursting through the door, not caring about the bang that must have wakened Mrs. Hudson. Only once inside, he discovered that the bang might not have been the door. Or at least the door alone.

"What the hell?" he asked, watching a toasted-looking Sherlock emerge from the kitchen which looked like there wouldn't be breathing in any oxygen in there for the next couple of months. The smoke which was now slowly filling the living room was so bad, he actually forgot for a minute the reason why he was panting inside the doorframe.
"Experiment. I'm looking for a link between the power of an explosion and the size of a microwave." Sherlock answered, dropping (or elegantly falling, according to the man himself) in the sofa. He let his eyes fall close and looked like he was about to enter his mind palace any moment, so John intervened with a nervous little cough. Sherlock reluctantly opened his eyes again.

"What the hell?" John asked again, this time making some sort of motion with his phone that was still clutched in his hand.
"Yes, what is the matter?" Sherlock answered, still trying to process what he had discovered at the same time. Praying to whatever higher power was there, Mycroft or something like that, that John would keep it short and interesting.

"I confess my feelings for you…" John started, a little angered by Sherlock's lack of interest.
"No"
"What no?" Okay, maybe a bit more than 'a little'
"You didn't confess. I wasn't suppose to read that text, you send it by accident, most likely, going by the stench you're spreading, because you were highly intoxicated because you were upset that I left you at the crime scene. So instead of doing the logical thing and come home to see if I had a good reason, you went to a bar. There you ordered 5 pints of lager and drunken enough to type out such a text, you pressed the wrong key. That isn't a confession John. That's just being stupid." Sherlock couldn't help himself even if he tried. Not that he did. He was right after all. He was quite fed up with John. Who knew how long he had had these feelings and how long he would have taken to confess if it weren't for Sherlock leaving him to himself tonight. He probably wouldn't ever have found the courage to speak about them.

"Well, it doesn't matter how it happened, it did. I texted you how I feel and all you reply is 'finally.' What's that supposed to mean? It isn't even a real answer." John tried to remain calm, but both the alcohol in his system and Sherlock's speech made it quite hard to contain his emotions and not start crying. Or slapping Sherlock in the face. Of course the fact that he had just confessed (he would say confessed, no matter how many pretty speeches Sherlock would give) he was in love with his flat mate/colleague/best friend. He didn't know how many more slashes he could have with Sherlock.

"I think it says all that needs to be said. Now pass me my laptop please." Sherlock replied.
"So you… feel the same?" John asked, a bit insecure, but with Sherlock, there were all sorts of reasons to be insecure.
"Yes of course. Always have been, always will be. Now please, give me your laptop, I need to write down the conclusion of my experiment." Sherlock said, obviously half in his mind palace already.

John sighed and grabbed his laptop. He guessed this was what he should have been expecting. And in the end it did sound romantic in a Sherlockian way. But he would have his bit of fun as well. After all, it was obvious Sherlock replied in such a short way to his text, just to freak John out for just a little longer.

So when he passed his laptop to Sherlock, he quickly pressed their lips together. Nothing more, just a chase kiss, but it had the desired effect anyway. For a second Sherlock opened his eyes, blushed a bit and pressed back, before John walked away. And maybe he was pushing it, but he even dared to say that Sherlock looked a bit disappointed when he went to the kitchen to make some tea.

And that was how they got together: by a drunken text from John and an annoying speech from Sherlock. Exactly how it should've gone, if you asked either of them.