John's footsteps fell heavy on the pavement, and his heart felt equally so as he stared up at the building in front of him. 221B Baker Street, current residence of Sherlock Holmes and the bane of John Watson's existence. As he stood beside Mary with his hands in his pockets, eyes fixated on the wooden door, he couldn't help but feel an overwhelming anxiety building up inside of him. He hadn't seen Sherlock in nearly a week, and though he was still mostly blaming himself for it, he couldn't help but feel a strange sort of animosity towards the inanimate dwelling place he stood in front of.

"Come on John, the party's inside," Mary said as she stepped in front of him and rang the doorbell. They were greeted by a woman who John guessed was Sherlock's landlady, Mrs. Hudson, and were ushered inside.

"Welcome, welcome," she said. "Everyone's upstairs."

"Thank you." John took Mary's hand in his and led her up the stairs into Sherlock's flat. He took a quick glance around the sitting room and caught sight of Molly sitting on the sofa next to Detective Inspector Lestrade, chatting and sipping on glasses of red wine.

"John!" she called out, standing to cross the room and give him a quick hug. "Glad to see you could make it."

"Are you kidding me?" John said, putting on his best fake-smile. "I wouldn't dare miss Sherlock's housewarming party." They shared a quick laugh, and John took another look around. "Speaking of Sherlock, where is that consulting detective?"

"He's right here, John." Sherlock stepped out into the living room with his hands clasped behind his back. His eyes were cold and calculating, and suddenly John began to feel like an experiment of Sherlock's would under his scrutinizing gaze. He offered a friendly smile, hoping to show Sherlock there were no hard feelings, though he was still a bit upset. Sherlock didn't smile back, but John saw his eyes soften before he nodded his head in silent acknowledgement and went back into the kitchen. John followed after him, as did Mary, and she set about pouring two glasses of wine, handing one out to John.

"Oh no thank you," he said. "I don't really like red wine." Sherlock pointed to a bottle sitting on a nearby counter.

"That Sauvignon Blanc is for you." He cast his eyes sideways at the glass in Mary's hand. "I knew you didn't like red wine so I went out and bought it yesterday." Sherlock took the glass from Mary's hand and took a sip, breaking eye contact with John as he turned to pick up an empty glass from the table. He held it out towards John, who took it wordlessly and went to fill it up. By the time he'd poured his glass and closed the bottle both Sherlock and Mary had ventured out into the living room. John could see Sherlock standing at the window, his back to the kitchen. John went to stand beside him and stared down at the busy street below.

"Sherlock?" he asked quietly, his voice almost a whisper. Sherlock glanced at John out of the corner of his eye, but made no other indication that he'd heard him. Still, John took that one glance to be enough incentive to continue. "Are we... okay?"

"What do you mean, John?" Sherlock's voice was as cold as it had ever been, and it stung. John took a sip of his wine and shrugged it off.

"I mean, the last time we spoke you seemed a bit-"

"I'm fine." Sherlock turned around and leaned against the windowsill, crossing his arms and looking over to John. "Perfectly fine." John knew Sherlock was lying, but rather than cause a scene in front of Molly, Mary, and Lestrade, John pretended to believe Sherlock and gave him a small smile before taking another sip of his wine. 

"You know," he said after a few minutes. "I have missed that violin playing of yours."

"Say no more." Sherlock gave him a tight-lipped smile, then went into his bedroom, most likely to retrieve the instrument. John turned and went to sit beside Molly on the couch. Mary was in the restroom and Lestrade was sat on the other side of Molly. He nodded in John's direction when he sat down, and Molly gave him a smile.

"Where's he run off to?" she asked, pointing in the general direction of the kitchen and Sherlock's bedroom.

"To get his violin." Molly's eyes lit up and John thought he saw her blush. Perhaps he wasn't the only fan of Sherlock's violin playing.  He cleared his throat and pretended not to see the look on her face. "So, Molly... whatever happened with that friend of yours you were always telling me about? I've been meaning to ask you but-"

"What friend?" Molly and Lestrade asked at the same time. John eyed them both strangely before settling his gaze on Molly. "You remember that guy you used to always tell me about. The one who-"

"Oh, I know who you're talking about," Molly said quietly, staring down at her empty wine glass. Lestrade reached over and took it from her, and she offered a grateful smile. Lestrade stood and went into the kitchen, and John turned to face Molly.

"So...?"

"John, you must know the friend I was talking about is Sherlock." John suddenly felt as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room and he and Molly were trapped in some sort of airless, timeless vortex. He'd always assumed Molly and her friend were romantically involved, with the way she talked about him, but Sherlock had never mentioned...

"You and Sherlock?" Molly's eyes widened to twice their size and she shook her head vigorously.

"Oh, no, not like that. We're just friends. Like I said." She glanced over towards the kitchen, as if making sure the coast was clear before sharing some top-secret information. She turned back to John and lowered her voice. "When we first met, I'll admit I quite fancied him, and for a while I entertained the notion that he liked me too, but he didn't, and now I don't." John brought his hand up to his chin and stroked it thoughtfully.

"I see." He shrugged. "I suppose I understand why you thought that. He is quite the flirt, isn't he?"

"Who, Sherlock Holmes?" Molly asked, flabbergasted. She leaned away from John and stared at him like he'd just grown a third head. "I don't know where you got that idea from."

"Well he-" John was cut off by the sound of footsteps approaching, and almost as if on cue Sherlock appeared, holding his violin and smiling at the two of them. John took a sip of his wine, but found it hard to swallow around the lump that had appeared in his throat.

Sherlock played several songs on his violin, the five of them talked and played board games and, save for one ruined stack of Monopoly cards, the rest of the evening passed rather pleasantly. John and Molly didn't talk about Sherlock, and when it came time for everyone to leave Molly had given him a look that said they would be talking about him again, soon. It gave John an uncomfortable feeling.

He decided to hang around a bit longer after everyone left, and so he found himself leaning against Sherlock's kitchen counter, finishing off his last glass of wine for the night, while Sherlock washed everyone else's glasses. When John finished he handed it to Sherlock, who glared at him, but washed it anyway.

"So, Sherlock," John said when Sherlock started drying the glass. "When are you going to tell me what happened with your last living arrangement?" Sherlock sighed and shrugged, then turned to face John, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms.

"I suppose now's as good a time as any. It was nothing really. My landlord and I had a bit of a row that got blown way out of proportion."

"And by 'had a row' you mean-"

"I might have called him a pretentious arsehole and..." John stepped closer to Sherlock and stared up at him eagerly. "I may have insinuated that his wife was an adulteress."

"Sherlock!"

"Well she was!" Sherlock unfolded his arms and started pacing back and forth. "She propositioned me a great number of times, and anyone who would do that obviously has loose morals." John shrugged and took another step towards Sherlock.

"I don't know about that. Maybe she propositioned you because you're..." John looked away and trailed off, wondering how inappropriate it would be to tell Sherlock just how attractive he was. It was obvious to anyone that Sherlock was gorgeous; John would have to be an idiot to deny it. But, he'd never allowed himself to think such things about the man who used to be his flatmate. Perhaps now, with his inhibitions loosened by the alcohol currently in his system, John felt comfortable enough to reach out and place a hand on Sherlock's bicep as he looked up at him. Sherlock merely stared back, his face expressionless but his eyes showing a vast array of emotions.

"I'm...what?"

"Well, you're quite..." John let out a deep sigh and looked down, shaking his head. "Oh, hell, Sherlock. Surely you know how attractive you are." John ignored the way Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise and continued his praise. "You're absolutely stunning, and brilliant. You're so clever, and you..." John's eyes met Sherlock's, and he suddenly lost the ability to speak. Sherlock's pupils had been blown wide, nearly encompassing the entirety of his irises. His mouth was hanging open slightly, and John swore he'd never seen a more beautiful face than Sherlock's in that very moment. His eyes dropped down to his perfect, cupid's bow lips and his grip on Sherlock's arm tightened. Sherlock brought a trembling hand up to grip John's shoulder, his grey eyes searching John's for something unknown.

"John?" It was that moment when John's final glass of wine managed to kick in and all his inhibitions suddenly went out the window. He reached up and placed a warm hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, and pulled him down until their lips met.

The kiss started out slow, but soon turned feverish, with teeth clashing and tongues dancing, and hands roaming everywhere. Exploring, cataloguing, and simply feeling. John felt himself being roughly pressed against something hard, but the pain in his back didn't quite register. He let himself be kissed by Sherlock, let himself be devoured by the man he'd tried so hard to fight his feelings for, and the dizziness in his mind only increased with each second that passed with Sherlock's hands on his hips. John felt like every inch of his skin was on fire, and he loved every minute of it. He never wanted it to stop, he never wanted to stop kissing Sherlock, but they had to come up for air eventually. 

Sherlock pressed his forehead against John's and they stared into each other's eyes for a moment, both trying to catch their breath while their minds caught up with what they'd just done. John's mind never fully quite caught up, and he was glad for that because he knew that if for one second his mind cleared enough to actually realize what he was doing, he would have turned and left Sherlock's flat without ever looking back. Instead, he grabbed Sherlock's hands and began dragging him down the hallway to his bedroom. He kicked the door closed with his foot and pushed Sherlock against it. 

The look in Sherlock's eyes was a mix of confusion and elation, but most of all lust. If John had thought he was gorgeous before, he looked absolutely ravishing now, with his face flushed and lips swollen from kissing. His tongue darted out and swiped along his bottom lip, tasting where John had been, and he frowned.

"We can't do this." John frowned back, but didn't pull away.

"Why not?"

"You're drunk." John blew a raspberry and shrugged.

"I'm not that drunk." Sherlock placed his hands on John's arms and held him at arm's length. John struggled to get closer to him, reaching out to bury his hands in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock sucked in a breath and closed his eyes before letting out a quiet and slightly surprised sounding 'oh', and John grinned, thinking that the small gasps Sherlock gave were more amatory than anything he'd ever heard before in his life.

"Y-You're not thinking clearly." Sherlock cleared his throat. His argument was losing intensity with each tug John gave on his hair. "You'll... regret this in the morning." John gave a sharp tug on Sherlock's hair and brought their faces close together, giving is best attempt at a Sherlockian smirk.

"Why don't you let me find that out for myself?" Sherlock's eyes dipped down before he sighed and shook his head, though John noticed he didn't try to pull away.

"I'll call you a taxi."

"I'm not going home. Not when you're not there." Sherlock sighed and dropped his head. John absentmindedly played with his curls while he waited for Sherlock to just give up on convincing John that this wasn't something they should do. At this point it seemed more like he was trying to convince himself, and that didn't seem to be going very well either.

"Well," he finally said, lifting his head to stare into John's eyes, "If you want to stay over this flat has two bedrooms." John responded by giving Sherlock a hard kiss on the lips, then kissing his chin and working his way up Sherlock's jaw until his lips were beside his ear.

"I don't think we'll be needing two."