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Everything seemed to be going so well. Over the past months, John had seemed to gravitate closer and closer to him - fingers touching when John brought him his tea, a greeting hand on his shoulder when he came home after a long shift, evenings spent watching TV together on the sofa, the dust experiment moved to John's chair... It almost seemed as if that first blunder, the unthinking you must know I'm married to my work, didn't matter anymore, as if it didn't ruin everything, as if there was still hope. Sherlock hoped there was still hope.
But then, Erica arrived.
Erica, a new nurse at the clinic, not young, but moved down from up north. She was the first woman John had dated after the first spree of almost-one-night-stands, something to prove both the I'm not gay and it's all fine, and Sherlock wasn't sure what to think. The first time after John and Erica had lunch together, John came home whistling. After their first real date, John walked up the stairs two percent faster than usual. And the day after he'd first spent the night at her place, Sherlock came into the flat to catch him dancing. John never danced, before.
Sherlock didn't like it one bit.
Yet, he trampled down the burning feeling of jealousy that flared every time John's phone buzzed. It was misplaced and unnecessary and useless, because John had every right to date anyone he wanted and didn't have to consider Sherlock's pitiful feelings, because Sherlock wasn't, and would never be, his. Erica was, and John was very happy because Erica was.
He just wanted John to be happy.
***********************************
One Friday, about five weeks into John's dreadful - completely valid and understandable, Sherlock added in his head - relationship, the doctor came home extremely cheery and very determined to get hammered.
"Come on." He said, dragging Sherlock away from his experiment on mouse livers, "You're joining me."
"I don't drink." The detective informed the doctor warily.
The man smiled at him, exceptionally cheery for someone who was planning to not remember that night. "You are tonight."
"Am I?" Sherlock followed him to the couch, then paused as he spotted the amount of liquor on the coffee table."Everything... okay?"
"Yeah, everything's fine." John took a bottle of whiskey and took the cap off. "Why wouldn't it be fine? I'm just in the mood for getting drunk with my friend. Problem?"
Sherlock snatched the bottle from him before he could take a swig and moved back to the kitchen, not saying a word as his brain frantically tried to find a reason for John to get drunk. "Everything all right between you and... Evita?"
"Erica. Yeah, we're swell." Something in the way he said it didn't sit right with the detective. "Come on, just see it as an experiment. What happens when your big brain is on booze. Ever tried that out?"
"Perhaps." Sherlock found the dusty whiskey tumblers and gave them a quick rinse before filling them both halfway. The bottle was going to be empty at the end of the night, no matter if he played by that ridiculous finger rule or not. "I'd figured that my doctor would want me to stay away from certain substances."
"Today's an exception." John took the glass and took a big gulp, winching at the burn as it went down. "You need to let loose a little, once in a while."
"Fine. " He sipped his own drink a bit slower as he made his way back to the couch. "Let's get drunk."
***********************************
"Less... Leddsss play a game." John slurred, then giggled at himself. "Less play a gayme."
Sherlock quirked a brow. He was only at his third glass himself and feeling pleasantly buzzy, but John had emptied the rest of the bottle by himself and was much further gone.
"A game?"
"Yeah, a- a gayme. I axe- axe- axe a queshion and if you don' anshwer, you take a sshot."
Without saying a word, Sherlock added a bit of liquor to both of their glasses. He knew exactly how much more he could take, and this could be entertaining. Besides, the chance that John would remember this in the morning was very small.
John chuckled. "Okay." He slouched a bit more in the seat. "Ooo-kaaay."
Sherlock sipped his drink, waited. John took a moment to think, then giggled.
"O-kay." John turned to him. "Are you ga-ay?" The way he stretched the word made him sound like a teenage girl, even with the raspy, whiskey-altered voice. Sherlock crinkled his nose and took a gulp big enough to count as a shot. John giggled.
"Ever been in lo-ove?"
Sherlock frowned. "Isn't it my turn now?"
"Nope." John stared at the air for a moment as if he could see the P pop in front of him. "I axe- I axe queshions."
Sherlock scoffed. "Fine. Yes. I have." He wanted to say I am, but resisted the urge, even when John wouldn't remember later.
"Lllong ago?"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. Why did he want to know? "No."
John giggled. "Reshent, then?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a shot, not answering simply because of the stupidity of the question. John giggled again. It would be getting tedious, really, if it didn't sound vaguely cute.
"Izzy nice?" John asked. Sherlock swallowed.
"Very."
"Cute?" John stared at him, blinking rapidly. Sherlock chuckled. He looked ridiculous. Maybe the alcohol was getting to him.
"Very. Not available, though."
"No?" John pouted. "Izzy... Izzy taken?"
Sherlock swallowed, stared at his glass.
"Very."
John giggled merrily. "Y'- Y'sound like a- wazzit. A-" He circled his finger in front of his face, looking at it and then nearly falling over, and giggled again. "Wazzit called?"
"Broken record?" Sherlock suggested, smiling at the display. Yes, the alcohol definitely was having an effect.
"That! Yeah. Y'shound like a broken record." John beamed, proud of himself for no reason at all. "Y'should axe 'em. Juss- Juss go an' shnog 'is shenses out o' 'im."
Sherlock quirked a brow, unimpressed at his friend's eloquence. "No."
"Wh' no'? Maybe- Maaaaybe 'e's interested. 'E Prubl- Probla- Proplably is. Yer handsome."
Sherlock paused, his brain shutting down for a millisecond. "You think so?"
"Very." John giggled at his own reference. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes before standing to hoist his doctor to his feet.
"Come on." He groaned, supporting the man and dragging him to the stairs. "Off to bed with you. You've had one too many."
John giggled. "Very, very veeeery handsome. Sh'rlock. Sheeeeerloooooock." He stumbled up the stairs, nearly falling backwards as another fit of giggles took him. "Taking me to beeeeeed."
"Shut up." Sherlock dumped him on the bed and managed to wrestle off his shoes before leaving him there, the giggles eventually dying down and being replaced by snores.
***********************************
John wasn't going to let it go.
That much became clear the moment he came down at four in the afternoon and marched straight into the kitchen, flipping on the kettle and turning to examine Sherlock where he was sitting staring down at a slide of pig liver. Sherlock could feel him staring, could feel the implications of his heavy gaze. John stared, and stared, even when the kettle clicked off and the water started to cool.
Sherlock sighed and turned to him, irritated. "What?!"
"You're not a sociopath."
"Excuse me?"
"You're in love with someone and you're scared to tell them." John was smirking, now. "You're not a sociopath."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't believe you're the one to make that judgment, doctor."
"Who is it, then?" John was still smirking. Hateful. Sherlock turned back to his liver.
"None of your business."
"Oh, come on." John tuned and pulled down two mugs, turning on the kettle on again. "I must know him, right?"
"Him?" Sherlock quirked a brow. "Making assumptions?"
John shrugged. "Can you tell me they're not male?"
Sherlock looked up to glare at him. "None of your business." He looked back down to hide his expression as the next words bubbled out. "Besides, it doesn't matter, anyway."
"Right." Sherlock could hear him roll his eyes. "Because he is taken, right?"
"Amongst other reasons." Sherlock managed to grit out. This conversation was growing tedious.
"Bollocks." John opened the fridge to take out the milk. "You're just scared."
"Am not. Open a new carton." Sherlock didn't look up. Fuck it all, John was going to keep talking about it until he had gotten some sort of satisfactory answer. "I'm simply not willing to spend energy trying to obtain something unobtainable."
"Nothing is unobtainable." John reasoned, taking the new milk carton. "At least not until you try."
Sherlock sighed. "When did you become a philosopher?" He muttered. "I know I can't fly, I don't need to jump off buildings for that."
"True." John placed his cup at his elbow. "But you don't know if someone likes you unless you ask."
"Right." Sherlock carefully placed his microscope away and took his cup. "So what would you say, then?"
John frowned, sitting down. "Sorry?"
"Imagine your that person. What would you say? If I... took the risk, so to say?"
"Well." John shrugged. "I'd say I'm flattered."
"And next?"
"And I'm taken right now." John sipped his tea, shrugging. "But anything could happen. I mean, surely, if someone would approach me now-"
"And I'd step away." Sherlock interrupted him. He didn't really wanted to hear John talk about leaving Erica for someone else. "I've known what he'd answer before he did, and I've stepped away. That's what people do, right?"
Not willing to say or hear any more that could compromise him, Sherlock stood and stalked to his room, locking the door behind him.
John stayed staring at the kitchen table, dumbfounded.
***********************************
It took John over an hour of cleaning and reading and wondering until he realised.
"Recent, then?"
The shot Sherlock had taken was answer enough.
"Is he taken?"
"Very."
"You're just scared."
"I'm simply not willing to spend energy trying to obtain something unobtainable."
"I'd step away."
"Oh, shit." He nearly dropped the cup he'd been washing and immediately rushed to the drawer where they kept the spare keys. Sherlock always locked himself in when he needed to look composed. Quickly, he moved over, knocked twice, and unlocked the door.
"Go away." Sherlock grumbled from his place on the bed, where he lay in his usual thinking position. "'M busy."
"No, you're not." John leaned against the doorpost. "You're just avoiding me."
Sherlock groaned. "Please, if you really want to exhaust this subject-"
"It's me, isn't it."
Sherlock froze. He was already laying perfectly still, but now he froze. "What do you mean."
John moved into the room. "It's me. I'm the person, aren't I?"
"Are you?" Sherlock sat up. "Why'd you say that?"
"Because it's true." He sat down on the bed. "Isn't it?"
Sherlock looked away. "Does it matter?"
"Yes." John moved a bit closer. Sherlock frowned.
"It does?"
John shrugged. "Erica and I had a fight yesterday afternoon. She said I should just go back to my boyfriend."
Sherlock quirked a brow. "You said you were swell."
"Sarcasm, Sherlock." John smiled. "She also called me David during our activities."
Sherlock winched. "I'm sorry."
John shrugged. "Not your fault. Besides, it wasn't going to work out between us anyway."
"Why not?"
John intently looked at him. "I realised I'm in love with someone else."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You sound incredibly soppy and cliché."
John shrugged, smiling. "You've read my emails. Sometimes I am."
Sherlock moved even closer. " Utterly ridiculous."
"Very much so."
"Incredibly idiotic."
"As you've told me."
"Completely brilliant."
Their lips met.
Quick and tender and over within seconds, both were panting with unreleased endorphins when they broke apart.
John smirked. "As are you."
After that, it was just rolling with the waves and trying not to drown.