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The scotch had gone to their heads, and they had giggled and talked, and someone had turned on the radio, and before either of them knew it, they were dancing. And then they were dancing together. John twirled, and Sherlock dipped him.
Suddenly, they were on the sofa, and Sherlock was kissing him. Sherlock Holmes was kissing him! John had often imagined this moment. Fantasised, dreamed, wanted.
“Oh, John,” whispered Sherlock as he kissed John’s neck, his fingers tugging the shirt from his jeans. And then John remembered why this couldn’t happen. Why he could never let this happen.
He grasped his flatmate’s hand. “Sherlock. I can’t.”
“Why not,” Sherlock whispered, biting John’s ear. “I want you. And I know you want me. You can’t hide anything from me. You should know that by now.” He licked John’s neck.
John pulled away. “I’d just disappoint you, Sherlock. I’m sorry.”
“You could never disappoint me, John. Not you.” Sherlock ran his hand up John’s thigh, and it felt amazing, but John had to stop Sherlock from learning the truth.
“Listen, I…”
“I know, John.”
“What—”
“I know, and I don’t care. The best things come in small packages. How could you think size would matter to me?” Then he kissed John tenderly, and John, full of joy and relief, kissed him back.