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He kisses him at the top of the Ferris wheel.
Sherlock’s too shocked to do anything at all, really -- too shocked to kiss back, too shocked to blink, too shocked to breathe.
John pulls back a second later, and Sherlock watches as his eyes grow wide and panicked. “Jesus,” he says, and he looks Sherlock up and down. “Oh, Christ, Sherlock, I'm so, so --”
Sherlock blinks. Once, twice, inhales. They're still three quarters of the way up and heading slowly down. The lights from the fair are shining in John’s hair, in his eyes. He's cold, but refusing to show it. He doesn't want Sherlock to worry, insist they go back or get him something warmer. Sherlock can see the goosebumps on his arms and the lights from the fair and the moon in his eyes and they're shining and his must be shining just as much and he's wanted this for so, so, so long, and he thinks, well.
“Don't apologize,” he interrupts, and he doesn't realize he's blushing until he's already leaned back in for another kiss. Too late to try and make himself look something other than the blushing virgin and complete mess he is, but then again, he figures, with the wind blowing and mussing his hair and him being at least as obviously cold as John, and John knowing him anyways, it was too late for that to begin with.
Fireworks go off when he kisses John, and it's precisely as Earth-shattering as he always thought it would be.
The wheel keeps spinning. Below, some song that's too faint from the distance and the noise everything else, the crowds, the wind, the creaking of the wheel, plays on.
At some point, Sherlock puts his head on John’s shoulder and watches the world turn beneath them. John reaches for his hand and Sherlock takes it. It's warm.
It's nice.
They stay like that for some time.