"Strangers in the night exchanging glances

Wondering in the night what were the chances

We'd be sharing love before the night was through

Something in your eyes was so inviting

Something in you smile was so exciting

Something in my heart told me I must have you

Strangers in the night

Two lonely people, we were strangers in the night

Up to the moment when we said our first hello little did we know

Love was just a glance away, a warm embracing dance away

Ever since that night we've been together

Lovers at first sight, in love forever

It turned out so right for strangers in the night"

-Frank Sinatra, Strangers in the Night

December in London is as harsh and brittle as the ice that covers it. Stepping outside is like being slapped in the face by the wind. Noses and ears are tinted pink, lights adorn the city and walking through it at night is like stepping into a glittering wonderland.

Baker Street was no different. A tree decorated with tinsel and enough lights to cover the M25 rested in the window.

Coming home that bitter December day, I ascended the stairs and quietly placed my coat on the dining table. I looked to my right to see none other than Sherlock curled up in the foetal position on the persian rug that covered the floor.

"Have you not moved since I left?" I enquired.

"You left?"

"Yes, for several hours. I was at Eileen's."

"Which one is she? The doctor or the painter?"

"The painter."

"She's sleeping with someone else."

I sighed and sat down in the squashy leather armchair that had unofficially become my own. "I know."

"Oh."

"You know, sometimes it's best to not say anything."

"I was trying to be nice. How would you like it if you found out the hard way?"

"I did."

Sherlock looked up at me, finally recognising the sadness and disappointment I'd worn since I returned. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay", I said, getting up and going to the kitchen. "I'll make some tea. You must be freezing, is the heating not on?"

"Apparently not. I tried shouting Mrs. Hudson but she must be out."

I knew that tone of voice all too well. I returned to him and grasped his hand.

"Jesus! You're frozen."

"Believe it or not, I didn't need informing of that."

"Sherlock, you're ill."

"I'm fine."

"I don't care what you think. You may have pneumonia. Or worse. When was the last time you ate?"

When he didn't reply, I took it as an excuse to say what had been on my mind for a while.

"You know you need to take better care. I'm not always going to be around to make sure you don't seriously harm yourself."

He couldn't look at me, but chose to instead glare at the wall. I recognised something in his face, but was unsure what.

"I can't even think about how I'd react if one day I found you like this and you didn't wake. You pump nicotine and god knows what else into your blood, all the while not eating and sprinting miles around London every single day. Your weight isn't exactly stable, and it's coming up to deep winter. I don't want to have to bring your brother into this, but if that's what it takes to make you wake up, then God help me Sherlock, I will."

He glanced at me and looked away. It seems that the best retort he could come up with was: "Food is unnecessary." He seemed to realise that wouldn't be enough to warrant a substantial argument though, so he continued.

"All I need, is to get around. I have caffeine, nicotine and glucose for that. Not to mention the sleep I get when we're not on a case. I don't understand the fixation that everyone has with bodies. All they do is help you travel. The brain is what matters. The brain holds knowledge and emotions, it dreams up sonnets and paintings. The brain can fathom mathematical equations better than the world's most advanced calculator and repeat them with ease."

Up until then, I had no idea that he was so... Poetic. That he thought so deeply.

"But the body is so much more than that. It is with your body that you communicate. That you share sonnets, you paint. Your legs" I said, tracing his calf with my forefinger. "Your legs dance, they trace stories on the floor, they tell poetry much more than our voices ever will be able to. They run. They take us to far away places, catch criminals. Your hands." I said, interlocking his fingers with my own. "Your hands play the violin better than anyone I've ever known. They grip a gun with so much fire and passion. They allow you to touch." I released my grip and then continued. "And then there's your eyes. Your alien, unforgiving eyes." At this he blinked a few times. I moved my right hand up to the back of his neck. "Eyes can communicate perhaps more than anything else. Feelings and stories can be captured by a single look." The look he was giving me then, for example. I knew that look. The look of apprehension and terror at one's own thoughts. I swallowed, hesitated and then moved my hand down his cheekbones to his mouth. "Then there's your lips. Ever the wordsmith, you capture the attention of everyone around you with a single word." I now had both hands on his neck. His warm neck, pulse racing under marble skin. My pulse was racing as well. I could feel my heart beating so hard I thought it was going to burst out of my chest.

I don't know who leaned in first. All I know is what happened next. We both were so unsure of ourselves, of what the other was thinking. His hands were shaking as he moved them to the back of my head and pulled me in. Our lips met. Breaths now becoming more sporadic, we moved ever closer. Suddenly it felt like any time we weren't touching was wasted. I needed to be closer to him. Closer. I pulled my asphalt jumper over my head. He traced my thigh with the palm of his hand and worked his way to the small of my back.

Oddly enough, it felt right. Me and Sherlock. Holmes and Watson, together.

He then pulled away and looked disgusted with himself.

"Oh god. John, John I'm so sorry."

I stared at him for a good few seconds, then shook my head at the sheer absurdity of it all. "Why are you apologising?"

"I don't know. I felt like I needed to. I don't know why I just kissed you either. It felt like that was what the situation demanded. I've never felt that before."

"Hang on... You mean, you've never been with anyone before?"

Sherlock looked away. "The opportunity has never arisen."

I laughed and moved to light the fire. He took this as me mocking him, which made him turn crimson. "Why are you laughing at me?" He looked hurt, offended.

I turned back and wrapped my arm around him, taking his head in the crook of my neck. "I'm not. I never would. I have literally no idea what just happened though."

"Well we just kissed, and now you're shirtless."

I unsuccessfully tried to suppress a schoolboy giggle. I slipped my jumper back over my head and grabbed the nearest blanket. "Come here", I said, wrapping it around us both.

I don't remember much of what happened next. All I can tell you was that Mrs. Hudson came up the next morning to find us both on the floor, backs to the sofa, asleep. My head was on his chest, his arm around me.

Some things should never be discussed.

You can choose whether it's particularly slashy or not. Personally, I like to look at the lyrics of the song and make my mind up from that ;D