A.N. Just a little one-shot inspired by a friend's dreaded attendance to a wedding.

Disclaimer: No characters are mine. I really should do something about that. Unbeta-ed, so let me know if you spot something major!

Sherlock watched. Watching was what he was good at, one could learn almost everything just by watching. He watched now from the fire exit doorway with a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Rarely did he desire to participate, he wasn't one for joining in. It didn't often bother him, being stuck on the sidelines, not with the things he could observe and discover, but now, watching John sweating and dancing and laughing...

He shook it off, taking another mouthful of his wine, which was really rather good actually, and the last lungful of his cigarette before grinding it out under the toe of shiny black brogue. He should go back in. To the unbearable heat and noise. To hell. To the wedding party. He wished he'd never accepted the invitation.

He had to skirt the edge of the dancefloor as he headed for the bar, almost dancing himself with the twisting and stepping it took to evade the heaving masses. There was some godawful country barn-dance style abomination being butchered by the band and it most definitely called for more alcohol.

"You've been smoking," a voice announced indignantly at his shoulder.

Sherlock didn't have to turn and look. John would be there. With his eyebrow raised disapprovingly, the sweat beading on his forehead, perhaps even united and formed into a droplet trailing down a temple or the side of his nose. His white shirt would be crumpled, damp and clinging to the fine muscles in the small of his back. His tie would be present, but loosened around the open top button, an angular glimpse of suprasternal notch.

"Large glass of red," Sherlock nodded to the barman.

"Sherlock?"

"And a pint of lager." He added. Not what was being asked, but nevermind.

He heard the puff of laughter, felt it caress the side of his neck, "Smoke if you like, you're a grown man."

Sherlock should have been surprised. Or, should have been if he wasn't Sherlock, but he knew John wouldn't care – not here, not with the amount he had eaten, drunk and danced. A wedding was a celebration of love, apparently, and John celebrated as well as the next man. Possibly better.

"But, just so you know, you smell disgusting." John leaned around him for his beer, brushing his chest along Sherlock's arm.

And you smell delightful, Sherlock wanted to reply. But didn't. He turned to watch John's back disappear into the crowd.

.oOo.

Molly looked beautiful in her dress. He wasn't one to notice things like that, more the type to question why. Why the effort was being made, who it was being aimed at, what had changed the appearance, what appearances had been changed. But today he found himself oddly content to look her over and just absorb her face, smoothed of worries, and kiss her delicately blushed and overly made-up cheek and appreciate the fine tones of her bridal gown and the silhouette the boning displayed.

She looked like a princess, he would say, if he felt whimsical and childish. Her new husband, James or Joe or Jake or some other commonplace name that started with J (but not John, because he certainly would have remembered that) looked like a prince beside her. Sherlock felt more like a cartoon villain stood with them earlier, long and lean, angular in his dark suit, his calculating gleam alongside their innocent conversation.

"Sherlock?" She was there again, touching a gentle hand to his arm, looking up caringly to his face, "Having a nice time?"

No, it's fucking awful, was what leapt to mind first. Instead he forced a smile, but not too wide because she knew him too well to fall for that one, and tried not to spoil her evening. "Yes, thank you."

"You're not dancing?"

"Not currently."

"Or talking to anyone."

"No."

"Just drinking."

"No."

"Just drinking and smoking and sullking." Molly amended with a fond smile, squeezing the hand that lay on his arm.

"Which I am perfectly happy with, I assure you," Sherlock carefully removed her hand and turned her away from him, back towards to dancefloor, "Now go and make merry on your wedding day."

"You don't have to stay," she pointed out kindly.

Unfortunately I do, he thought to himself. Even he couldn't get away with sneaking off just yet. But he didn't say it, he just nodded.

.oOo.

John was dancing. He had been for most of the evening, since the day-do turned into the night-do and the band emerged and starting murdering music. He'd tried to persuade Sherlock to join in at the beginning, but had soon given up. Sherlock wasn't one for dancing.

He could dance, obviously; it was a simple matter of natural rhythm and controlling one's own body to the beat. Sherlock could dance with the best of them – in the ballroom or the club. But John was not the best of them. And Sherlock refused to join in the undignified throng of thrashing, bopping drunken dad-dancers.

Though, now he looked, John was actually rather fantastic. Well, he was always pretty fantastic, but now especially so. He had a strange girl with him (who had apparently missed both the natural rhythm and the body control genes), a beer in one hand, the other raised in the air. His hips moved surprisingly lithely, circling and swaying and generally hitting the beat spot-on. He gave a laughing twirl, grabbing the young woman's hand, pulling her close and saying something into her ear. He was carefree, at ease and happy and Sherlock was jealous.

Not jealous of John personally, but jealous of the dancers, who had that body among them, that pelvis rotating and that arm waving in their presence. Sherlock wanted that, wanted him. He wanted to take that flamboyant carefree happiness and keep it just for himself. He didn't want to share it with this room of people he almost knew and certainly not with the strangers. It should be his.

But it wasn't.

.oOo.

He was smoking again. He hated the fact that he felt guilty for it. He shouldn't. He just couldn't stay in that room anymore, watching everyone else have a good time and wishing he knew how to join in. He could pretend to join in, of course, but it wouldn't be the same. He should be happy with that, he wasn't one for actually allowing himself to be entertained by others. But sometimes he wished he was.

"Do you want to go?"

Sherlock turned in surprise. Surprise at the fact that John had managed to sneak up on him. Surprise at the question. Surprise at the fact that he would sacrifice his own happiness just because he could see (which he should not be able to) that his friend wasn't having a good time. Surprise that he could still be surprised by him.

"No."

"Then why are you out here again, on your own?"

"Who else would I be with?" He shrugged.

John laughed. He took a step forward, surprising Sherlock again. "Me."

"Go back inside and dance with your friends, John."

"You're my friend."

That's not enough. He lifted his cigarette to his lips again and sucked it in until his lungs ached.

.oOo.

There was some kind of organised dance routine being massacred on the dance floor. Ceilidh-dancing, or something . He stayed precisely where he was; seated, alone, and ten feet from the free bar. He wasn't one for people making fools of themselves over a loathsome frolicsome beat, displaying their alcohol-fuelled ignorance over a couple of simple quaint peasant-based choreographed steps. Molly had tried, and failed miserably, to get him to join in the last one. He had eventually resorted to a withering glare to persuade her to sod off. Thankfully she had finally given up, grabbing some relative by the arm and skipping off to the confused groupings across the room. But there was something in her laugh that had not sat well with him. It wasn't cruel, or confused, or even humoured. It was pity.

He didn't need to be pitied, he didn't like it. And he certainly wasn't going to explore why she thought he deserved it, or why he was determined not to.

"You're dancing the next one."

"I most certainly am not." Sherlock replied to the familiar voice beside him.

"Do I have to force you?"

"I'd like to see you try."

"I like to try."

Sherlock shot a frown at John. That was not what he had expected. The tone was almost... flirtatious?

"How much have you drunk?" He enquired, dipping his head to one side.

"Enough."

"More than."

"Probably," John shrugged. "Come on, they're calling for couples."

Sherlock had been going to refuse, to stand (or sit) his ground. It hadn't been a careless expression he had voiced, he did want to see John try. He wanted to hear him wheedle and bargain and blackmail and bribe. That twinkle in his eye, the one he got when teasing Sherlock, was addictive and that was what he wanted.

Instead, however, he was distracted by John's phrasing. Couples. Were they a couple? Couple of what? Also, he was even more distracted by the hand that pressed into the small of his back and the light pressure that encouraged him forwards. The thumb gave a firm stroke downwards, bumping over his vertebrae.

A caress. It was most definitely a caress.

There was a brief moment of panic as he found himself on the dancefloor, hemmed in on both sides by sweaty men with laughing faces and beer-tainted breath. His panic was more that he had lost himself for a second and allowed himself to be led to somewhere he did not want to be, but part of it was that tiny squeeze of claustrophobia. Being surrounded by people, too much going on to be able to place himself and deduce, bodies too close to him.

But then John smiled at him. An inane grin from across the three point seven metres of space between them, and everything was fine again. Well, perhaps not fine, but passable.

The moves were annoyingly easy to follow. For some reason no one else seemed able to master them. The utter confusion irked him; people going the wrong way, the chaos of twenty people all losing rhythm at different rates. But for some reason he was smiling. And when came back to his original partner and linked arms with him in the middle of the square, he actually laughed at John's breathless enjoyment. The firmness of John's bicep against his after the ladies that made up the rest of John's row was a disturbing pleasure. The waft of his sweat and cologne didn't so much tease his nostrils as assault them.

He even joined in the absurd bow at the end. John giggled manically at him before curtseying wonkily and bounding forwards to fling his arms around him in a textbook affectionate drunken embrace.

Sherlock froze. At least three seconds passed, a very long time in his head, before he came back to himself and hugged back.

"I'll have to get you drunk and take you dancing more often," he quipped, somehow managing to sound casual and amused.

"Is that a promise?"

"A threat," he laughed, letting his hand linger on a shoulderblade before giving a firm pat and pulling away.

"I'll hold you to it."

I wish you would. The bar was calling again.

.oOo.

Sherlock had smoked all his cigarettes. The fact that he didn't recall finishing the pack was probably a sign that he should stop drinking. He wasn't one for humiliating himself in a state of inebriation and the burn of alcohol in his stomach was beginning to spread into his veins. He crumpled the small box in his hand and flung it at the wall in disgust and glared at the cardboard corpse taunting him.

"That's a shame." John had a cupcake. Or rather he had had a cupcake. Now all he had was an empty wrapper and a dusting of powdery icing residue at the top corner of his lips.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. It wasn't his deducing face, it was his pissed off face.

John stepped into his space, probably unconsciously, judging from the sway in his movement and the wobble of his gaze. "Have you tried the cakes? They are heavenly."

"I'm sure," he waved a careless hand. The smear on John's lip was fascinating, the shape of it, the texture, he could almost taste the sugar on his tongue. He gestured to his own mouth, "You've got a little..."

John just watched the movements of Sherlock's fingers against his face. His eyes focused and tracked to the best of their drunken ability. The muted music from inside filled the space heavily.

Sherlock forced himself to move. He switched his finger to John's face instead, "You look ridiculous. You are ridiculous. Let me just..."

He automatically brought the dried icing to his own mouth and sucked it off. He hadn't meant to. It was a stupid predictable response and it completely betrayed him. John's brain was evidently functioning more efficiently than his, which made a decided change, and it allowed him to move, lifting his own hand to fasten around the base of Sherlock's thumb. He used the grip to tug the taller man closer.

"No, you are ridiculous," he mumbled, before yanking Sherlock's hand down away from his face in a swift strong movement.

Sherlock watched in fascination as John did that thing with his lips, moving them soundlessly, opening, closing, pressing them together, slipping out a pink tongue to moisten them and leave them slick in the dry evening air. It was one of those moments where neither knew who moved first and neither cared who started it, because mouth was on mouth and hands were on waists, pulling bodies into contact.

It was so stupid. Sherlock pulled back, unable to stop thinking how stupid it was - possibly the stupidest thing he had ever done. Yet, as John leaned up, almost on tiptoe and renewed the contact, he realised it was absolutely marvellous at the same time. John's lips were thin and firm, but so delicious, grazing over Sherlock's in a dance that would have seemed intricate and contrived if he hadn't been able to taste the passion on the air. There was no gaudy slip of wet tongue, because of course John would know how squeamish that would make him, just damp sucking and lingering squeezing and hot panting.

John's hand left an invisible imprint on Sherlock's waist as it moved up, trailing the back of his fingers up the outside of Sherlock's arm before touching gently to his jaw bone. A tender touch, as he separated their lips, but took care not to leave any space between their joined noses or tangling eyelashes.

"Okay?" He whispered.

Sherlock struggled for words, there was no way he could explain the turmoil, his fear of the risks, his fear of the unknown. "I don't know what I'm doing..."

"It's okay. I do."

Do you? Do you really? Do you have any idea? He wanted to ask. But instead he nodded slowly, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of John's mouth, "Let's go home then."

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