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Falling snow, twinkling lights, paper hats. Short, grey days and long, dark nights. Sherlock had always had a certain fondness for Christmas, but this was the year he grew to love it more than any other day on the calendar.
The annual 221B Christmas party began ordinarily enough. Despite its tiny size, the flat had somehow fallen into the tradition of hosting the evening do for Sherlock and John and their close group of friends. It was never a loud or rambunctious affair; just a small gathering, with drinks and food and music in pleasant company. And it truly was. Pleasant, that is, not that Sherlock would ever openly admit that. But it followed, logically, that whomsoever was patient enough to stick around and not be driven away by his acerbic personality was either destined to end up being a cherished friend, or a mortal enemy to the mercurial Sherlock Holmes.
Fortunately for them all, Mrs Hudson only opened the front door for friends.
Molly Hooper was first to arrive this year, having made entirely too much of an effort to dress up for the occasion. She gave Sherlock an awkward kiss on the cheek when he greeted her at the door, to which he tactfully held his ground and smiled, despite the quiet internal panic her misguided advances always triggered. He sincerely hoped she wouldn’t be getting too drunk tonight.
Phil Anderson arrived shortly thereafter, cheerfully handing over a bottle of Vine Starr Zinfandel, which was something of a tradition in itself these days, as if he still felt it necessary to do everything in his power to atone for his part in the Reichenbach mess. He had surprisingly good taste in wine; Sherlock made a point to occasionally prod at his guilty conscience to keep the gifts flowing in.
Last to arrive, looking slightly haggard and apologising profusely for the delay, was Greg Lestrade. It was a sad fact of life that this time of year was typically one of the busiest at Scotland Yard. Thefts, murders and rapes all saw a sharp increase during the festive season, and it was difficult to drag a dedicated Detective Inspector away from his work. But he needed this, a short break from the constant pressure and stresses, the harsh realities of life that a man in his line of work was forced to acknowledge every day. He hadn’t missed a 221B Christmas party yet, and he wasn’t about to break his streak. Still, Sherlock told him off for being late.
This year, as always, their lovely landlady Mrs Hudson had cooked up a delicious holiday feast of Turkey, roast potatoes, parsnips, carrots, broccoli, stuffing, big fluffy Yorkshire puddings and a raspberry trifle for dessert. They all ate until they couldn’t stand to cram any more into their stomachs, and later, gifts were exchanged in the living room, glasses were filled in the kitchen, and John lead the group in a toast to the tumultuous year gone by.
As the night wore on, Sherlock stole an opportunity during a quiet moment to serenade the group with his violin. He played, swaying back and forth in front of the lit hearth, its warm orange glow illuminating his elegant frame like an aura and dancing along the edge of his bowstring. It was moments like this, John thought, wherein his brilliant flatmate seemed almost ethereally beautiful, something quite otherworldly. It was so different from his usual persona, that piercing scrutiny of his eyes and the hard, mechanical instrumentality of his mind; when he played, he seemed to melt into the vibration of the notes, became one with sound— a being of pure reason transformed, as if by magic, into the very avatar of Music.
And on his part, it was a rare pleasure for Sherlock to have such a captive audience. John had, over the years, grown immune to his sudden bouts of musicality. In the beginning, it had always caused him to stop what he was doing, or drift into the living room if he was elsewhere, and just listen while Sherlock caressed some mournful tune out of his instrument. And Sherlock loved that, really. John had an unusual talent for making him feel special, as if he appreciated him not just for his mind or his keen deductive abilities, but for all these other useless parts of him too. His music would never solve a murder, would never uncover the secret identity of a blackmailer or lead anyone to a hidden cache of stolen riches, yet John was, at one time, as fascinated by it as everyone else was of his intellect.
But that fascination had also scared Sherlock in a way he couldn’t quite comprehend, or explain even to himself. The way John looked at him when he played was unlike anything he’d ever seen directed at him before; it was almost too much. Too raw. It gave him a strange sensation of second-hand vulnerability, as if John looking at him like that could flay him open somehow and physically hurt him, even if he didn’t intend it to. Which was ridiculous, of course. He recognised it as such. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that growing too attached to John’s admiration would leave them both at risk for some terrible, unnameable pain. And so, whenever John paid attention to his music, Sherlock would pretend to be uncomfortable, would stop playing whenever he noticed John staring at him with that look that made his stomach do flips and his fingers forget the notes. Eventually, John stopped paying attention. Nowadays, whenever Sherlock played, John ignored him entirely.
It was safer that way, he’d told himself. The last thing he wanted to do was scare John off by saying something stupid in his confusion of messy emotions.
But after the final note of The First Noel sung out through the air, there was a brief and satisfying round of applause from their guests, and John’s eyes lit up with that same look that Sherlock hadn’t even realised he’d missed so much until now. His heart clenched. He wanted John to look at him like that all the time, but it was something he knew he could never have. From that point on, his mood began to sink.
By 9 o’clock that night, they were all sufficiently drunk enough — even Sherlock, though it didn’t take much to get him tipsy — to entertain the idea of playing a few Christmassy games.
As ever, Cluedo was ruled off-limits, so that Sherlock couldn’t embarrass himself with his unorthodox playing style. And spirits were too high, on the whole, to bring the mood down with a tedious, sobering game of Monopoly. They quickly grew bored of playing cards. Then, eventually, someone had the bright idea of playing Truth or Dare.
That was more like it. Everyone loosened up over the course of several increasingly risque rounds, at which point a devious gleam lit up in Greg’s eyes. It was time for a new game.
“Awright, how about this one: Kiss & Guess,” he announced to the pleasantly hazy group. He lifted his beer bottle to his lips in a mildly successful attempt at hiding a smirk, curious to see who might be brave enough to accept such a challenge.
Mrs Hudson looked scandalised. “Oh really, Greg! I suppose I had better sit this one out, then, hadn’t I?”
“It’s nothing lurid,” he promised. “Actually, what I have in mind is a bit different to the standard game.”
“What is it? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of Kiss & Guess,” John asked, his words forming a tad slower on his tongue than usual. He was sitting back in his familiar armchair, which had been repositioned with the rest of the furniture to form an intimate circle of seats around the coffee table at the far end of the living room. Despite an encroaching sense of boredom, John was in a very good mood tonight. He was willing to try something new. “Something about… kissing someone and then guessing something about them? Sounds pretty fun.”
Beside him, Sherlock was perched on his leather chair, knees drawn up, socked toes gripping the edge of the cushion. He looked like an owl.
“’Something about kissing someone and guessing something.’ Astute deductions as ever, John, however did you figure it out? You’ll be putting me out of business one of these days, if you keep that up.”
John rolled his eyes at the remark, refusing to let Sherlock bait him so easily. He was being a moody git for some reason tonight, but he'd been alright earlier. John wondered if something had upset him, but knew it would be pointless to ask. Sherlock's moods were as changeable as the wind. Maybe, hopefully, he'd perk up again soon.
Sherlock took a delicate sip of his single malt whiskey and frowned at himself. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop his pinky finger extending from the glass in his hand. How infuriating. If losing one’s ability to control their extremities was an expected side-effect of being drunk, he wasn’t sure what the appeal of it was supposed to be.
Molly and Mrs Hudson giggled at him. He glared at his finger for a moment, eventually solving the problem by putting his glass down.
The ladies shared the sofa, leaning forward but relaxed, taking occasional sips from their glasses of Anderson’s red wine. A string of tiny Christmas lights twinkled on the wall over their heads, part of the festive decorations John had hung around the flat while Sherlock, the lazy git, had pretended to be working. Greg and Anderson each had a wooden chair carried in from the kitchen. They looked mildly uncomfortable, but neither would complain; it was either that or they’d sit on the carpet, and who knows what kind of chemical experiments Sherlock had spilled about this place over the years.
Behind Sherlock’s chair, the steer skull was gaily decorated with a santa hat and a tinsel scarf. The tinsel was the same colour as the length currently adorning Sherlock’s neck. He adjusted it now and then as if it were an expensive accessory, worn deliberately, and not something John had draped over him earlier with the jokey excuse of brightening him up a bit.
“It goes like this,” Greg began. “One person gets selected to be the, erm… kissee. They put on a blindfold, then their hands are tied—”
“Good lord!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed, her hand fluttering at her chest. “No, I’ll definitely be sitting this one out, thank you. This sounds like no game a dotty old lady like me should be playing!”
“You were an exotic dancer in a past life, Mrs Hudson. I’m sure you’ve been in far more compromising positions,” Sherlock offered with a lopsided smirk.
“Sherlock,” John warned, giving his best a bit Not Good look. Sherlock frowned again. He hadn’t really meant to say that out loud.
“It’s just so they’re not tempted to find out who’s kissing them by touching their face or clothes or something,” Greg patiently explained. “Oh right, I skipped that part. So, they’re blindfolded, right? And then the rest of the group selects a random kisser to kiss the kissee. Nobody should speak or give any indication who got picked, otherwise the kissee might get clued in. If the kissee can guess who kissed them, the kisser has to finish his or her drink and we pick another kissee. But if the kissee doesn’t guess it, they take a swig of their drink and we pick another random kisser until they get it.”
“Blimey. Are we going to need a flowchart to play this?” Anderson remarked. Greg shot him a withering look, but the other faces in the circle looked equally dubious. It certainly did sound complicated, now that he was trying to put it into words. But Greg had never been very good with this sort of thing. He scratched his head and searched for a better way of putting it.
“Um, Greg…” Molly squeaked, her dainty fingers playing around the stem of her glass. She had been conspicuously quiet for a while, and when she looked up, her expression was timid. “If Mrs Hudson isn’t playing, then that… That makes me the only… girl.” A shy smile pulled at the corners of her mouth, spreading it thin.
Glances were exchanged around the group. Yes, that did seem like a problem. Not that any of them were particularly uncomfortable with the idea, but what would be the fun of it without any girls playing?
Obliviously, Greg shrugged. “That’s alright, Molly. You can sit out too, if you’d be uncomfortable.”
“Woah, hang on a minute,” John said, sitting forward in his chair, “so it’d just be the blokes playing a kissing game while the ladies watch? Is that what you’re suggesting?”
Greg threw his hands in the air, looking defeated. “Well I didn’t expect the ladies to sit out, did I? Oh, forget it, I’m rubbish at this. Someone else pick a game, for gawd sake.”
A silence fell over the group.
“I’ll play,” Sherlock said evenly, not taking his eyes off his glass. Everyone looked at him in shock. The sudden attention startled him enough to look up. “What? These so-called ‘guessing games’ are simple tests of deductive reasoning. I’m clearly going to win every round. Of course I’ll play.”
“I’ll play, too!” Molly chirped, suddenly much more into the idea for some reason, though nobody seemed surprised. When Anderson also sat forward and declared himself in, Greg raised his eyebrows at John questioningly.
John rubbed his chin. Well, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Of course, there was the danger of having to get entirely too close to Anderson’s face for comfort. But if Molly was playing, then at least there was a chance of not having to kiss, or be kissed by, someone with a face full of stubble. He’d never really fancied her, but it wouldn’t be unpleasant. And Sherlock seemed so confident he would win this. John simply couldn’t resist the allure of finally having a chance to beat him at a game. Because if there was one thing John was certain he knew better than his brilliant flatmate, it was the intricacies of human touch.
And if he was completely honest with himself, that wasn’t the only reason he was seriously considering it.
“Come on, John. You’ll get the hang of it as we play. I’ll keep track of the rules,” Greg urged, looking entirely too hopeful to start a kissing game with a bunch of mostly straight blokes.
“Wait,” Sherlock interrupted. “What kind of… kissing is all this going to be about?”
“Yeah, I dunno about this,” John said cautiously. “Don’t get me wrong, I love a good snog as much as anybody. Just not sure I fancy the idea of having to wrestle tongues with you or Anderson. No offence.”
Molly blushed at having been excluded from the list of John’s undesirables. Nobody mentioned how Sherlock was also excluded, but Anderson wiggled his eyebrows at Mrs Hudson, who caught his meaning and couldn’t hide her coy smile. Sherlock noticed the secret exchange, of course. He noticed everything. But he didn’t understand it, so settled on narrowing his eyes at them in suspicion.
“The kissee can set their own boundaries, which must be respected,” Greg said pointedly. “Other than that, the kisser decides exactly how and where to kiss. On the face, mind. No funny business!”
Anderson huffed. “By and large, I don’t think any of us is particularly keen on kissing or being kissed by anyone else here. I don’t think we have to worry about any funny business going on.”
“Alright, I’ll play then,” John said, “but no Frenching.”
“And no hand-tying,” Sherlock hastened to add, to which both Molly and John nodded. “The blindfold should suffice. If someone tries to cheat, we can think up some kind of penalty for it.”
Greg nodded in agreement. “Alright. So, first thing’s first…” He proceeded to clear a small space on the table, pushing aside empty bottles and glasses and putting a few gift boxes on the floor underneath to lay one of his empty beer bottles flat on its side on the table’s surface. With a flick of his wrist, he set it spinning, and a few seconds later it settled… on him. His cheery expression fell instantly. “Oh, bollocks.”
Anderson broke out into laughter. “Well, you asked for it,” he said, taking great delight in his boss’ misfortune. John hopped up and approached the coat rack by the front door, unhooked one of Sherlock’s long navy scarves and tossed it unceremoniously over Anderson’s head to Greg.
“Don’t use that!” Sherlock barked, realising what he meant to do with it.
“It’ll be fine. It’s your fault we’re playing this, and we’re not using one of mine,” John pointed out, sinking back into his armchair. Sherlock pouted into his drink, muttering to himself. He liked that scarf. He didn’t want it stretched or made smelly with people’s forehead sweat. He’ll have to bug Mycroft to buy him another one for his birthday.
Greg wrapped the scarf around his own eyes and tied it loosely behind his head. Satisfied with the fit of his blindfold, he clapped his hands together. “Okay, now someone else spin the bottle again, and whoever the lucky lass or lad is gets to give me a peck on the cheek. Then I’ll see if I can guess who it was. If I get it right, they have to drink.”
“Only the cheek, Greg?” John asked in a faux-innocent tone. “You were so eager to get this one started, I figured you would be lobbying for a little more than that.”
“Shaddup. Just spin the bloody bottle already.”
The bottle was spun. The group collectively held their breaths until it came to a stop, pointing towards Molly. Her eyes darted around, panic stricken. John jerked his head towards Greg, silently mouthing ‘go on then!’
She stood, timid as a mouse, and awkwardly shuffled between the table and Mrs Hudson’s legs. When she was close enough to reach him, she bent forward and planted a quick kiss on the side of Greg’s head at the hairline, just above where the scarf was tied. Then in her hurry to retreat back to her seat, she almost tripped over the table leg. Mrs Hudson caught her just in time. She settled back into her seat, face flushed with embarrassment.
“Cor, that wasn’t much to go on,” Greg sounded disappointed. “But uh… I think I know anyway. That was Molly, wasn’t it?”
Molly smiled sheepishly. “How’d you know?”
Greg pulled the scarf from his eyes. “Well I knew it wouldn’t be Mrs Hudson, and there’s nobody else in that direction from where I’m sitting, so…” He shrugged, smiling apologetically. “That round was a bit of a bust. Hang on, I’ve got an idea.”
“Not another one,” Sherlock grumbled, thoroughly unimpressed so far and feeling his mood sink even lower. John smacked him playfully on the arm. Greg got up and lifted his chair away from the table, crossing the room to the hearth, and placed it down in the space between where Sherlock and John’s chairs usually resided.
“There. At least direction can’t give it away now.” He sat back down and tied the scarf back around his head. “I’ll go again. Let’s give it a proper try this time, eh?”
The bottle was spun again, and this time it came to a rest facing John. Silently cursing his luck, John pushed to his feet and approached Greg, mindful to quiet his breathing and not rustle his clothes, lest something give him away. God, this game was weird. If someone had told him he’d be giving one of Scotland Yard’s finest male Detective Inspectors a kiss tonight, he’d ask them for a glass of whatever they’ve been drinking. Nevertheless, the thought did give him a clever idea.
Holding his breath, he leaned over and gave Greg a precisely measured two-second kiss on the tip of his nose, then pulled away before allowing himself to breathe again. He returned to the group without a word.
“Hmm, that’s a tough one,” Greg mused. “I don’t think I’d say Anderson… or John. Didn’t catch a whiff of drink, which is suspicious, considering we’re all tankered. Trying to be sneaky, eh?” He grinned, lifting his chin confidently. “That was Sherlock, wasn’t it? Had to be.”
“Nnnnope,” Sherlock said, side-eyeing John with a mixture of astonishment and competitive jealousy. “It was—”
“No, don’t tell me who!”
“Why not?”
“Because if they got picked again, I’d know who it was. It’s an unfair advantage, ruins the fun.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Sherlock sniffed imperiously. “It was John.”
“Oi! Don’t give my game away, you prat.” John picked a ball of scrunched-up wrapping paper from the floor and flung it at Sherlock, who caught it and threw it straight back at him.
“Lord knows why everyone assumes they’re a couple,” Anderson muttered under his breath.
Mrs Hudson leaned forward and placed a hand on his knee, ever the doting mother-figure to her boys. “Don’t tease them, luv.” John flashed her a thankful smile.
At the next spin, Molly was picked again, but she shook her head, refusing to go again so soon. After that, Sherlock was chosen. Having been observing the others carefully, he mimicked what John had done, holding his breath and kissing Greg on the nose for precisely two seconds. Figuring it was trick, Greg called the bluff and guessed John.
“You really think I’d try the same thing twice?” John said, almost managing to sound offended at the notion that Greg really thought him that stupid. But the D.I. shook his head.
“I thought it was a double-bluff. You know, like you were doing it deliberately.”
Not stupid, then; he actually thought John was cleverer than that. Interesting. There seemed to be more value to this game than he’d first thought. He was starting to properly enjoy this. What else could he learn about his friends tonight?
Greg was proving to be pretty awful at this so far. But another spin landed on Molly again, who decided to just get it over with. This time, she kissed his cheek, leaving behind a faint red smudge of lipstick. It was by a blind guess, literally and figuratively, that he finally got it right. He looked relieved to finally rejoin the group, leaving his wooden chair behind for the others and opting to perch on the arm of the sofa next to Mrs Hudson for the remainder of the game. He finished off his beer and opened another.
The spinning bottle selected its next contestant. Sherlock grimaced, but nevertheless stood up to take his duty as kissee. He smoothed down his shirt, snatched the scarf from Greg and sat in the chair. Securing the blindfold (it already smelled of Lestrade, damn it) he nodded curtly and waited for the first uncomfortable invasion of his personal space.
“This should be interesting,” Anderson murmured as he watched the bottle spin again. It settled on him. He groaned and buried his face in his hands. Of all people, why him? Well, maybe he had a chance. If he could fool Sherlock Holmes, he’d go down in Baker Street history. It was certainly worth a try.
After a moment to steel himself, he got up and tip-toed as quietly as possible over to Sherlock, who straightened reflexively when he sensed the man approaching. He hesitated for a moment, thoughtfully scratching his chin. Of the group, he had probably the bushiest beard, which could end up being a dead giveaway. But would Sherlock be able to tell? Surely his own stubble would mask some of it? Best be safe, though. Crouching down in front of him, Anderson angled his face in a way that would allow him to give Sherlock a kiss on the chin while preventing most of his own facial hair coming into contact. He also stole John’s idea of holding his breath, keeping his drink of choice secret from the detective’s sensitive nose. It was foolproof; there was no way he could tell who it was.
But before he even had a chance to get closer, Sherlock confidently answered: “Anderson.”
“What?! How?” Anderson cried. Sherlock dismissively waved him away.
“Idiot. I heard you scratching your beard. Next!”
Anderson returned to the circle, going straight for his drink with a sour expression on his face.
“Sherlock…” Greg gave a long-suffering sigh. “The game is Kiss & Guess, not Get Vaguely Near Them & Guess. It’s a bit against the spirit of the game if you don’t even wait for the kiss part, isn’t it?”
“Why?” Sherlock countered impatiently. “If I already know who it is, it’s not going to make any difference whether I wait or not, is it? Next!”
“There’s no next, you berk,” John said. “You guessed him correctly. That means you sit back over here and we pick someone new.”
“Boring,” Sherlock rebuffed. “And I never guess, John, you know that. Next! Spin the bottle, pick someone already!”
“You want us lot smothering you in kisses?” Greg asked, incredulous. But he was grinning at the notion. Honestly, it wasn’t that much of a surprise to realise just how touch-starved a man like Sherlock must be. It was no wonder he was so eager to stay in the kissee’s chair. But the denial came quick and automatic.
“I don’t care about that. I want to win, and statistically I’ll win more rounds sitting here than relying on random chance of being picked as the kisser for someone else.” He drummed his fingers on his knees impatiently. "Are you going to spin it, or shall we just declare me the winner by default?"
Looking around, Greg saw no complaints from anyone else, which also wasn’t particularly surprising; he couldn’t think of a single soul, gay or straight, who’d turn down the opportunity to steal a kiss from Sherlock Holmes, even if they’d never openly admit it. So he spun the bottle on the table again, and a few seconds later it stopped on John.
Mid-drink, John spluttered and choked, coughing into the sleeve of his arm. Well, this was a bit sooner than he’d anticipated. But he had. Sooner or later, he knew one of them was bound to be in that chair and the other was bound to be standing over them… But it was just a game, wasn’t it? He wasn’t sure why this suddenly felt like such a big deal. He hadn’t felt weird when it was Greg. Why should this be any different? Because they were flatmates? Best friends?
Or perhaps, because on one or two occasions, John had actually dreamt about kissing him, and had an eerie sense that he already knew what it would feel like to press their lips together? And maybe he should be grossed out by that. But actually, he was kind of looking forward to it. It sent a renewed thrill of possibility running through him, eliciting a wave of goosebumps across the surface of his skin.
Not now, damn it. He’d long since tamped down any hopes of anything like that happening for real. Sherlock was… He just wasn’t like that. And John had come to accept it, reluctantly, because there had been a hope, once. Back when he’d first moved in. Sherlock had seemed to be deliberately serenading him with his violin, and John would listen, enraptured, as if Sherlock was sending ghostly strings of himself into the air, and it was all John could do to absorb them into his very soul. They felt connected. Or at least, he'd felt it. But something in his expression back then must have been too transparent, as if his feelings were written in his eyes, and whatever Sherlock read in them was disturbing and unwanted. And so Sherlock had made it as clear as he could, John figured, that his interest was unreciprocated. And though it made him sad, John respected his friend enough to bury it deep and leave it alone.
It was okay. Simply being Sherlock’s friend was a privilege greater than John thought he deserved to begin with, and these days he was happy to simply count his blessings, especially after he’d come so close to losing him for good.
Everyone watched intently as he slowly got up, turned, and approached Sherlock. For a reason he couldn’t fathom, the room’s anticipatory silence seemed to have grown particularly heavy all of a sudden.
As he stood over Sherlock, watching him sit perfectly poised and still, John focused himself back on the game. He artfully contemplated his next move. He knew all too well Sherlock’s ability to deduce someone’s presence without even seeing them. But no matter how certain Sherlock was of the man standing in front of him now, John was equally sure he could trick him into reaching an entirely different conclusion. It was time to test his skills.
Bending down, he pressed his lips thin and placed a feather-light kiss on Sherlock’s temple, just above the blindfold at his hairline. At the contact, Sherlock’s confident smirk instantly dropped.
John quickly retreated back to his chair. The group watched Sherlock, who gaped for a few seconds, seemingly thrown for a loop.
“Well?” Greg probed after a full minute of silence.
“M…Molly…?” Sherlock hesitantly offered. Everyone around the table gasped. Molly turned bright red. Sherlock ripped the scarf away from his eyes, his voice climbing comically high. “Who was it?!”
“Nuh uh, that’s not in the rules,” Greg said, waggling his finger at him. “I don’t know how, but… you lost, mate. Down yer drink.”
“But that’s stupid! And… impossible! That had to have been Molly!”
Anderson once again burst into laughter, slapping his knee. The noise caused Mrs Hudson to wake with a start, having fallen asleep against the back of the sofa.
“Well well, the great detective got something wrong! Are there pigs flying over the streets of London? Did Hell suddenly freeze over?” he mocked. John, hidden by the back of his chair, grinned victoriously into his drink. Huffing like a teenager, Sherlock blindfolded himself again.
“Well either you’re all cheating or it must have been John, because I can spot a liar at greater distances than this, and his is the only expression I can’t see from here.”
“Wasn’t me,” John sing-songed, inciting another round of giggles. That was the last straw.
Throwing off the scarf again, Sherlock stormed back to the coffee table, plucked up his glass and finished off his Whiskey in one gulp, his pinky still ridiculously extended despite his furious temper. He slammed the empty glass back on the table (John winced, imagining it shattering and them having to spend the rest of the night stitching up his fingers) and threw himself back into his chair.
“Oi, you’re not done! You’re supposed to stay in the chair when you get it wrong.”
“I’m not playing with a bunch of rotten cheaters,” Sherlock sulked.
“I was kidding!" John huffed. "It really was me. Bloody hell, Sherlock, you thought it was me the moment I stepped up. You must have. I just knew exactly what to do to throw you off the scent. That’s not a bad loss, by any stretch, you just should’ve trusted your instincts.”
He was right, of course, but Sherlock wasn’t about to admit that he’d severely underestimated John’s abilities. He made a mental note to watch him more carefully from now on; apparently, John was much smarter than he looked. He’d done exactly the same thing Sherlock had tried before, mimicking someone else’s technique. Maybe being around Sherlock so much was rubbing off on him?
Greg pinched the bridge of his nose, regretting he’d ever opened his mouth to suggest this. So far it had been a pretty disastrous game all round. “Ugh, whatever… Someone spin it again, if he’s done.”
Leaning forward, Sherlock shot a smoldering look at John, who saw in his eyes the same kind of intense energy that he’d often witnessed during a particularly stimulating case. He recognised that look. Apparently, the game was now on. Sherlock's lips curled into an impish smile as he gripped the bottle and flicked his wrist. The bottle spun a few times before coming to a stop.
“Oh. It appears it’s your turn,” Sherlock said innocuously.
John groaned. “Why does that not surprise me?”
“Off you go then,” Sherlock balled up the scarf and purposefully threw it at John’s face. John glared at him. Sherlock’s drunken petulance could occasionally be considered cute, but this was beginning to border on aggravated childishness.
As John moved to the kissee’s chair, Sherlock suppressed a cheeky grin. The game is on!, he thought excitedly, and spun the bottle again. It came to a stop directly facing him.
‘Seriously?’ Greg mouthed, and several eyebrows raised quizzically. Sherlock confidently stood, straightened his clothes, combed his fingers through his dark curls and strode briskly over to where John sat, blindfolded and patiently waiting. Then he leaned over, bringing his face very close to John's.
And waited.
The air by his face grew warm, and John sensed his proximity. He knew it was Sherlock, of course. His breath sped up slightly, anticipating the inevitable contact, but Sherlock remained there as motionless as a statue. He seemed to be holding his breath, as if that would do anything at all to conceal his identity. Oh, this was going to be so easy. But a full minute passed, and still he didn’t move.
John huffed in annoyance.
“Well? Are you going to do it, so I can get this over with and win?” he said, hoping nobody noticed the sudden huskiness that had somehow crept into his voice. He was keenly aware of exactly whose eyes were mere inches away from his face, observing every movement, every twitch of his muscles. And he was no idiot; Sherlock had set this up deliberately, he must have. Perhaps even from the moment he’d declared he wanted to play the game at all. John knew it. Probably everyone in the room knew it.
But why? Was this really just about winning the game?
Sherlock’s fingertip applied a gentle pressure under John’s chin, raising his face slightly. Still he waited, moved no closer. His breath was still held. It was a little unnerving. Another long ten seconds passed, and John began fidgeting, finding it increasingly difficult to resist the urge to lean forward and initiate the action himself. His back was warming from the burning fire behind him, the soft crackling and spitting of the logs the only sounds interrupting the tense silence of the room.
John wedged his hands under his thighs to stop them from clenching. “You can’t hold your breath forever, you silly git. I know who—”
Their lips met then, cutting off his words. Sherlock’s soft, gentle lips against his own. It was the lightest of touches, almost familial in its innocence. But it was so abrupt, so unexpected. John’s mind shut down like a city grid losing power. Sherlock was kissing him… on the lips? For a moment, he genuinely wondered if he’d guessed the wrong person after all.
Sherlock lingered there, almost unsure, as if fighting some rebellious instinct to stay. But then the moment passed, and as the other broke contact, John felt, rather than heard, a soft release of breath against his mouth. He breathed in— whiskey. Definitely Sherlock, then. But surely that couldn't have been deliberate? He must have known John would recognise him from that alone. He’d given his game away.
As John struggled to kick his mind back into gear and figure out exactly what this ploy was supposed to be, he felt a pair of hands come to rest on the back of his chair, and then the lips returned, firmer this time, and with them came the uneven breath Sherlock had been holding back before. He felt Sherlock’s body looming over him, and he had to tip his head up further to accommodate him. Sherlock’s mouth slid against his own, parting in a manner that could be nothing short of deliberately intimate. Before he knew what he was doing, John was returning the kiss with zeal.
John sensed that something had change enormously in Sherlock’s tone between the first and second kiss, and he wasn’t entirely sure it was on purpose. He seemed to have lost any semblance of control, forgotten what was even the point of this, beyond the apparent pleasure of simply kissing him. Whatever was happening right now, neither of them seemed to be playing the game any longer. They were really just… kissing. All pretence seemed to have been forgotten and left behind, as was anybody else in the room. In that moment, it was just the two of them. He tried to speak, but when he felt the tip of Sherlock’s tongue run delicately, pleadingly along his lower lip, John very nearly trembled into him. He opened his mouth, an invitation that was readily accepted, and now there was definitely nothing familial or innocent about this anymore. God, what were they doing?!
Whatever it was, he didn’t want it to stop.
At first, Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing. Okay, so this wasn’t exactly his area. Of all the ways people could be observed and understood, Human intimacy was the one thing he’d never quite been able to crack. But he was an excellent mimic; even if he didn’t feel what others felt, he could still replicate their actions. It was a simple matter of mechanics. But here was a perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.
He’d wanted to win the game, of course. But that was a secondary goal. Much more importantly, he’d seen an opportunity to experience a side of John that he’d always been curious, even yearning to explore for years. That side of him he’d caught a brief glimpse of whenever John brought home a new girlfriend. That softness, that shared warmth between John and his flavour of the week… Witnessing that had a similar effect on him as whenever John watched him play the violin, except it was a little sharper somehow, even painful sometimes, and these feelings came from a part of himself that he didn’t quite understand.
All night, his mood had been plummeting, and now he realised why. And although it scared him, he wanted to understand it. He’d wanted it for so long, it had become almost unbearable.
This was uncharted territory. But he had to do something about it, otherwise it was going to drive him mad. He needed to know what it felt like, to kiss John Watson. To be kissed by him. The prospect was both exciting and terrifying, but if he was able to remain separated from it emotionally, perhaps he could examine the results objectively.
His strategy was infallible: He would begin by throwing John off-guard, kissing him in the last place he’d ever expect, which of course was the lips. The shock of it would give him just enough room to orchestrate a perfect amalgam of every other attempt he’d observed that night. He would linger there just for a moment — not too short, but not too long — to cast doubt and suspicion over his identity. He would keep the touch light, but tender, and avoid brushing any part of his chin or cheeks, lest John feel a hint of stubble on his skin. His delay said Greg; His breath said Sherlock; His softness said Molly; His careful avoidance said Anderson. Sherlock could be any one of their group in that instant. He was everyone and no one. Most critically, however, he was anybody but his true self.
It was brilliant. Genius. He would win Greg’s silly little game, and find out what it was like to kiss John without making himself vulnerable. Then he’d tear off John’s blindfold and John would say exactly the same thing. That was brilliant, Sherlock! Regardless of anything else, John’s praise alone would be worth it.
Well, that was the plan, at least. And if he’d stuck to it, it might’ve even worked.
But all his carefully laid plans went to hell in a handbasket when he actually made contact. He hadn’t anticipated the effect such a simple touch would have, and he’d failed to account for the rest of his senses conspiring against him in that moment. The smell of John’s skin, his aftershave, the alcohol on his breath. The gentle sounds of his breathing, the feel of it rush against his mouth when their noses slid together. The slight wetness of his lips, where John had subconsciously licked them just a moment before. How unbelievably soft it felt, how pliant, how movable; he was trying to catalogue the sensation, but his mind filled with images of morning sunshine and biscuits with tea and ridiculous jumpers and John’s eyes, John’s smile, John’s laugh.
Kissing him, Sherlock discovered, was something altogether more than simple physical contact. It was like tasting the very essence of him. The expected moment of shock passed, and he felt John relax, but he didn’t pull away. Neither of them did. He really should, shouldn’t he? What was the plan, again?…
It took effort, but he managed to end the kiss, feeling slightly stunned himself.
Now, if this was still just about the game, then this was when he should have straightened and headed back to his seat, and maybe John would guess him, maybe he wouldn’t. It didn’t seem all that important anymore. But Sherlock couldn’t help himself. Leaning on John’s chair for support, he repeated the motion, took John’s mouth in another kiss, and this time it was unmoderated and uncontrolled. This time, it was more like he was… exploring, discovering something vital. About John, about himself. About them, the both of them, something he’d always suspected lied buried just beneath the surface but which he’d never been able to touch before. Didn’t know how. And now, with one physical point of contact, it was like a circuit being completed, old disused bulbs burning back to life in the dark corners of his mind, places that he hadn’t dared revisit in so many, many years. Emotions he’d all but forgotten even existed. Yet there they were, like relics from another life hurtling forward into the present, becoming relevant again.
That most decidedly was not part of the plan. But much like his unruly pinky finger, he was having trouble controlling his mouth, his lips, his tongue. He kissed John again because once hadn’t been enough. Because he’d wanted to kiss him. Because it had felt so… good? No, good wasn’t an adequate descriptor. This was more like breaking the surface of a sea he hadn’t realised he’d been drowning in. This was the first sip of water after years of dehydration. This was a desperate need, finally being fulfilled. He couldn’t describe it, there were no words in his vocabulary that did it justice. He only knew that he needed more of this. More of John.
And when John licked his lips, tasting the residue of himself he’d left behind, his breath hitched. Sherlock’s name seemed to catch in his throat. And Sherlock’s brain short-circuited. His heart skipped a beat. The bottom of his stomach dropped out, and it felt like he was falling out of a plane. And then John was kissing him back, softly but eager, as hungry for this as Sherlock himself was. This wasn’t a game anymore, for either of them.
John opened his mouth, a silent, instinctual encouragement, and Sherlock immediately claimed it, gasping at the sudden heat of this new place. Feeling his knees threaten to give way, he knelt before John, drawing his face down level with his own. His hands came away from where he was resting his weight on the chair, and instead held John’s face between them, suddenly terrified he would leap up and run away at any second. He didn’t want this to stop. Ever. He didn’t think it would ever be enough to sate him. They kissed for what felt like hours, but was probably just a few minutes. John even took control of it, perhaps sensing Sherlock’s inexperience in the somewhat clumsy way he moved; a little too much pressure here and there, accidental nips of teeth, his tongue travelling every inch, tasting every surface, as if mapping him out. It was passionate and loving, but unhurried. It was like they were speaking another language, holding an entire conversation of things they’d needed to say for so long, but never could find the right words. As it turned out, they hadn’t needed words for this at all.
After several failed escape attempts, John finally managed to separate himself from Sherlock’s insistent mouth, pulling back just an inch or two. Slowly, he slipped the scarf upward and blinked open his eyes. The first thing he saw was Sherlock’s swollen lips, parted and glistening, and had to resist a strong urge to dive right back into them again. Then he lifted his eyes and met Sherlock’s intense, worried gaze.
Sherlock seemed to realise his mouth was hanging open, and shut it with a click. It took John a second to realise what could be troubling him, but when he did, he couldn’t help the warm smile that spread across his face and wrinkled the skin of his eyes.
“You daft git,” John whispered affectionately, “You really think I didn't know? I wouldn’t have sat here and kissed back if it were anyone else.”
“How?” Sherlock asked after a moment, looking genuinely perplexed. “I made sure, my technique was completely unidentifiable… Wait. If you knew, then why did you…?”
John laughed softly, cupping Sherlock's face with his hands and allowing himself another brief, sweet kiss, which made Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed again for a second. John’s heart leapt with fondness. He really could be utterly clueless, sometimes.
“First of all, I don’t know anyone else obsessive enough to go through all that trouble just to win a bloody game. And second… I don’t think there’s anyone else in the world who loves me enough to kiss me like that.”
“I… Love…?” Sherlock’s eyes suddenly went wide. Did he? Was that what this feeling was?
“And even if they did,” John continued, his thumbs stroking over the edges of Sherlock's cheekbones. “I doubt they would’ve done it in front of a crowd.”
Sherlock gasped. He’d totally forgotten they weren’t alone. His head spun around in panic, fully expecting to meet a gaggle of shocked faces. But the seats around the coffee table were vacant. Nobody was there. He made a small, confused noise.
“They snuck off downstairs, I suspect somewhere around the point when you started sounding a bit breathless,” John said, half-giggling. His hands curled around the nape of Sherlock’s neck, fingers playing through the soft tufts of hair there. Sherlock turned back towards him. John rested their foreheads together, smiling softly, until he felt the tension lift from Sherlock’s body again.
How had it taken them so long to reach this point?
“I’m not entirely sure what just happened,” Sherlock admitted. He swallowed heavily. “I didn’t mean… But, I’ve never felt… John.” He looked into John’s eyes. “John, you won. Does that mean… we have to stop kissing now?”
He looked adorably distraught at the idea. John chuckled, shaking his head. “From now on,” he said, “I don’t think we’ll need an excuse to do this whenever we like.”
"Good," Sherlock sighed with relief. Then, closing his eyes, he brought his lips back to John's.
Love, he thought, turning the word over in his mind appraisingly. Yes, that sounded accurate.
Downstairs, the rest of the group raised their glasses in an impromptu toast.
“To those two lovestruck idiots,” Greg declared, grinning widely. “’Bout bloody time!”