AN- AH! My whole life has decided to pile itself on me at the moment. Sorry for that. So I'll not be updating any of my stuff much these next few weeks (please don't kill me)

As always; don't own, yada yada.

Enjoy
x

John sat on the high stool, slouched over the counter of the bar with a pint in his hand. It had been four weeks since he'd walked out on Holmes. Thinking back on it, it had been such a stupid argument. He'd just had enough. The detective said he didn't want or need anybody well that was fine. Just fine. John didn't have to waste his time running round after him, stopping him from getting killed, making his tea, bringing his phone and putting just about everything he had on the line because the maniac wanted someone to astound with his vast intellect. The man had no regard about anyone else, he didn't care. John huffed, it wasn't like he hadn't been warned. In fact he'd been warned by the man himself. John downed the pint and called the barman for another, a new man appeared, one who hadn't served him yet. The man gave him a troubled glance but did as he asked, taking the money and passing the pint glass.

'Drowning y' troubles in drink won't help ya. Ya need to face up to 'em sometime.' He said with a slight smile of sympathy. The doctor grunted and looked away. If he was very lucky, and drank enough, he could drown himself and that would be the end of it. The soldier looked around the bar. Couples sat in the booths, shoving their tongues down each others throats. John huffed and turned back round, it was just his look that he'd walk into a gaybar, that would go a long way to explaining why the barman had been eyeing him up when he walked in.

John's phone, a new one he had bought the day after he left, buzzed in his pocket and he ignored it. It was probably Sarah telling him he was roughly eight hours late for walk or Mycroft telling him to stop being a dick and go back to babysitting his brother for him. John couldn't really find the strength to care for either of them. His shoulder ached dully, reminding him that he hadn't done any exercises to keep it supple for weeks.

'Anyone sitting here?' A voice asked. John shook his head and looked up at the bloke. He was a good looking sort, cropped black hair and brown eyes and a sturdy body. The voice his John's mind feebly grumbled about not being gay but the soldier was far past caring.

'You look like you could do with some company.' The man tried again, clearly wanting to make conversation. John smiled, putting all thoughts of crime, 221b Baker Street and anything Sherlock related to the back of his mind.

'Yes, I suppose I do. Thanks.' He replied, placing his pint on the counter. 'Can I get you anything?' He asked, fishing on his pocket for the wallet he knew was there. The man gave a toothy lopsided grin.

'Sure. I'll have a bitter.'

The man was called Rich Harvey, his mother was a alcoholic and his dad dealt drugs. He'd lived for about two years on the street as a teen before finally getting his act together. He now owned a small chain of clothes stores throughout London and was hoping to expand his business in the near future. John was surprised how much could be learned from just a ten minute conversation. The bloke was witty, pleasant company and hadn't been imposing in the slightest. The soldier found himself opening up about his life, it was good to get a few things off his chest.

'Man, I don't know how you survived. I don't think I would have managed three hours before running out screaming. What kind of weirdo keeps a head in their fridge?' Rich said in awe. John chuckled.

'My flatmate and, for the record, he wasn't a weirdo. Just different. And stupidly clever.' He replied. Then John remembered why he was in the bar in the first place and he couldn't stop the disappointed sigh from slipping past his lips.

'You miss him.' The dark haired man stated. John gave him a harsh glance and opened his mouth to deny it but he closed it again when he saw the raised eyebrow.

'Yes, dammit.' He spat out. Rich placed a hand on his shoulder.

'It's ok, you just want to forget right?' He said in a consoling tone. The doctor nodded numbly. The other man smiled and tucked a strand of John's hair behind his ear.

'Well drowning yourself isn't the way to do it. You need something a bit more… intermit.' His voice was seductively low. The doctor's mind made a quick calculation and the maths checked out. He'd been with the unfeeling, uncaring genius for so long that now he just needed to get back to being normal. Both men leaned forward slightly and John almost didn't hear the very quiet click.

'Touch my blogger and I'll kill you.'

John looked towards his ex-flatmate with shock clear on his features. The tall detective held his revolver (one that John distinctly remembered throwing in the river) aiming it straight at the mans head.

'Sherlock, what the hell do you think you're doing?' The soldier hissed. The detective flicked his eyes to him.

'Stopping this pathetic waste of a human being from touching you. Obviously.' He retorted, the gun not wavering. John stood in-between the two men, staring down the armed male.

'You drove me to the verge of insanity, watch me leave then think that you can wave a gun in the face of someone I'm having a drink with? I think I can quite clearly remember that I said I didn't ever want to see your face again as long as I live.' The soldier snapped coldly. Sherlock's face was the picture of shock.

'I thought you would come back.' He uttered. 'You always come back. I was giving you space, being… I think you would call it considerate. But the last time I left you to fend for yourself, you were kidnapped and strapped to a bomb. I would never for give myself if that happened again. So I kept tabs and was making plans to ask you back, since you weren't going to yourself, and I come in to find this piece of junk trying to shove his tongue down your throat.' He growled. Rich looked at the to men in disbelief.

'And you still say he's not a weirdo?' He asked in a high voice, back pressed against the bar, thankful that the doctor now stood between him and the metal death bringer. John looked back towards him.

'God help me, I do.' He replied before turning back to Sherlock and snatching the gun from his grip with precision that didn't quite befit a man as drunk as he should be, slipping the safety on and taking out the bullets in under five seconds.

'But don't think this means I've forgiven you, Sherlock.' He said, putting the gun under his waistband and the bullets in his pocket. The detective nodded and held out his hand.

'So you're coming back?' He asked with a hope that John couldn't entirely be certain was being faked. He sighed.

'Yes, if only to stop you burning the place to the ground. I don't know how Mrs Hudson manages to cope with you, I really don't. Now go and I'll follow you.' He answered. Sherlock debated leaving for a moment then nodded curtly and left out the bar in ridiculously long strides. The soldier turned to face Rich.

'I am so sorry. You're really nice but I think you need to stop chatting up people in bars and find someone special for yourself. Hell, I think you deserve it.' He said with a smile. Rich smiled back sadly.

'I hope he knows what a lucky fella he is, if he gets too much again just give me a call.' The businessman replied, slipping a piece of paper into John's front pocket with a half-hearted wink.

'We're not together you know. I'm just stupidly addicted to danger and he sort of comes with it as standard. But he doesn't do emotions so it would never work.' The doctor said glumly. Rich chuckled,

'Sure, he told you that did he? Cos from where I'm sitting, that looked an awful lot like a very jealous man who wanted his partner back.' He said, picking up his coat.

John stepped out of the bar and straight into Sherlock.

'You took your time.' He mumbled before grabbing the man's hand and pulling him off down the street.

'Sherlock.' John called as they raced down the alleyways. 'Sherlock.' He yelled again, a little louder but it seemed the detective couldn't hear him. Or didn't want to. 'Sherlock!' This time he was heard and they stopped immediately.

'What John?' He asked, not even out of breath while John panted. It seemed that four weeks of moping and no exercise wasn't good for him.

'I think we're far enough away now, we could always walk. You know, that slower method of travel that stops us looking like complete and utter nutcases.' He huffed. The detective gave him an odd look but conceded and they continued at a slower pace.

'For a sociopath, you almost seemed jealous back there.' John said conversationally, his tone of voice slightly different but to such a small degree that it went unnoticed. Sherlock clenched his jaw.

'I was not jealous.' He stated. 'And sociopaths can have emotions, they're just much stronger and more compelling than those of normal people.' He sniffed. John chuckled at his flatmates irritation.

'Hmm… So you weren't jealous back there then? You didn't want to shoot him in the face because he wanted to kiss me?' He asked. Sherlock harrumphed but didn't reply.

'Oh my. The worlds only consulting detective has got a crush.' The doctor said, smiling darkly.

'I do not.' Sherlock stated. John locked his knees, bringing the two men to a halt again.

'John, you're being an idiot now come on.' The detective snapped. John shook his head adamantly.

'Nope. No, I'll go again when you admit that you fancy me.' He replied, sniggering. The detective was dumfounded. He'd never seen John drunk, not this drunk anyway. The air was chilly and he really wanted to get home. Not to mention that his flatmate did have a point.

'Fine. Ifancyu.' He mumbled. John sniggered again.

'Sorry, I didn't hear you. You'll have to speak up.' The doctor giggled.

'I fancy you.' Sherlock snapped, slightly louder than he needed to. The drunken doctor burst into a fit of laughter as he dragged his flatmate down the street again, not entirely sure where he was going but certain that Sherlock would steer him right if he went wrong.

Twenty minutes later, the two men found themselves outside of Baker street. John slipped the key into the lock while Sherlock marvelled at his steadiness. It wasn't right, but he guessed that the soldier made up for this minor miracle by his frankly childish behaviour.

'Shirley! Come on darling sweetness, you'll catch your death of a cold if you stay out here.' John called, forcefully dragging the detective inside.

'John, for Gods sake, grow up.' Sherlock snapped, pulling his arm away and turning to close the door. Which was a big mistake. As soon as he wasn't watching the smaller male, he was pounced on. John pushed him against the door, bringing his arms up his back to just where it became painful.

'John!' The detective yelped, suddenly aware of how much stronger the other man was. He squirmed, which only lead to searing pain shoot up his arm. 'John, I'm sorry! I didn't mean it. Let me go.' He wasn't entirely sure what he'd said that had upset the man but when he was in this state of mind the detective certainly wasn't going to take any chances. The pressure lifted.

'That's fine, hunny, I'm sure you can make it up to me.' The doctor said happily, squeezing the other mans wrist slightly before letting go completely and making his way up to the flat.

Sherlock waited for him to move out of sight before leaning against the door, dragging his hands down his face as he tried to get his act together. This was what he had hoped would happen for months now. In his mind, this had all played out so differently. He was going to wait til the good doctor was significantly tipsy then make his move. He knew that John liked him in ways more than a simple friendship and he knew that there was a high probability that he returned those feelings-he couldn't be sure because he didn't really know these 'feelings' and was currently in the process of experimenting with them-his body definitely wanted their relationship to move up a notch, or seven as the case may be. What he had expected to happen was for John to scowl when he arrived, raise an eyebrow as he took his hands, pulling him close. The bar would cease to exist and they would kiss. Sparks fly(metaphorically) and he takes his good doctor home for what would be many rounds of make up sex. A small voice reminded him that that would probably count as 'taking advantage' but he was sure that John wouldn't mind. Sure he'd have been slightly annoyed but Sherlock would have just told him that he wanted it and he'd grumble a bit but accept it. He hadn't expected his doctor to react this way to alcohol. It was like he was the same but all his morals had shifted. He didn't care what anyone thought anymore.

'Sherlock!' The shorter male shrilly called from upstairs, beckoning the detective upward. The detective steeled himself, he wanted this so why was he so scared. I'm not scared. The voice in his head whispered.

'Sherlock!' John crooned again. I'm absolutely terrified.

Sherlock climbed the stairs quickly, mostly to stop himself from chickening out and not going in. He opened the door to find John in his bath robe. Just his bath robe.

'Ah, Shirley, I thought I was going to have to bring you up myself.' He said seductively, resting his fingers on the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. The detective gulped.

'John?' He squeaked the cleared his voice, purposely trying to get his tones back down to their baritone levels. 'Don't you think we're going a little too fast?' He asked. The doctor raised an eyebrow.

'You aren't getting cold feet, are you?' He replied silkily.

'You're drunk. You'll regret this in the morning.' The detective flailed. John thought for a moment then dragged the other man forward, pushing him onto the couch and straddling him, undoing the buttons.

'Sure. I'm not as drunk as you think I am.' He muttered. 'I'm definitely not drunk enough to not realise that you steered me to that particular bar. And the reason you were there was to take advantage of little ol' me. That's why my last few drinks weren't exactly what you'd call alcoholic.' The soldier sniggered. Sherlock deadpanned. His mind whirled back to that evening. He was sure John was drinking beer. No. His mind supplied. His friend was drinking a pint of bitter and he was drinking out of a pint glass. His nose remembered the sickly sweet smell he hadn't been able to place before and had just put down to the two girls in the closest booth, or their perfume anyway. John pulled him up so they were face to face and the smell was back again. Apple juice. His mind supplied for him, followed by two resigned words. Oh shit.

John chuckled darkly and shrugged the shirt off the taller mans shoulders.

'Oops. Somebody wasn't paying attention.' He whispered, sending electric shivers dancing across the detective skin. Sherlock was aware that parts of him were becoming more heated, something he hoped the doctor didn't notice but, from where the blond was sitting, there was no way he couldn't. The detective's mind was whirring. No. that can't be. I'd never have missed something so obvious. His derailed thoughts spun round him until he realised he was lying back on the sofa with a determined flatmate currently trying to remove the rest of his clothes.

'John.' He squeaked. 'No, John. Too fast. Stop.' He called. The calloused hands halted after just zipping down the trouser fly. John slipped off of him and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief which caught in his throat as he found himself being hoisted in the air, limbs flailing uselessly.

'We'll use your room, it's closer.' John decided, only speaking out loud to see the detective reaction.

'John. Seriously, stop it. You didn't have a lot but you're still intoxicated. Please just don't. You'll regret it in the morning.' He babbled, spurting any reason which could possibly stop the blond doctor.

Of course, nothing worked and Sherlock soon found himself being dropped onto the bed that he hadn't slept in in weeks. John stripped him off his trousers, leaving him in just his boxers, then slipped into the bed beside him. The detective raised and eyebrow as his flatmate removed the bathrobe to reveal skin tight underwear. So that's two things I've gotten wrong today. He thought bitterly. John reached over the other man and switched off the light before pressing himself against Sherlock and rested his head on the taller mans chest, shuffling to get comfortable.

'Goodnight, Shirley.' He crooned. The detective looked at him in confusion.

'But- You were. Explain.' He demanded, becoming more than slightly perturbed by his flatmates odd behaviour and odder mood swings. The doctor chuckled sleepily.

'Did you really think I would force myself on you like that? You might take advantage of me but I'm wouldn't. No, I wanted to scare you, show you how it feels to be someone else's play thing. It's not fun and you needed to be taught. Now shush, I know you haven't slept properly for six days at least.' He replied, pulling the bed covers over them.

Sherlock watched in amazement as his flatmate and friend drifted peacefully in and out of the dream world. Many people had tried to teach him manners (Mummy, Mycroft even Lestrade at one point) but none of them had ever really succeeded. But John. John Hamish Watson had somehow taught him what it felt like to be in everyone else's shoes, so to speak. And it was scary, very scary, but it also gave him many new things to think about. Hundreds of experiments lined up in his head, ordering themselves into a fashionable list of most interesting to least.

'I said go to sleep.' Came a muffled but still very commanding voice from around his shoulder area. He looked down, John's eyes weren't even open. A few minutes passed.

'I'm a doctor and I've lived with you for about five months now. I know your heart rate whilst sleeping. Now go to sleep. Properly.' He commanded. The detective chuckled and shuffled slightly, getting comfortable. He never thought he would be with anyone else in the bed with him, he didn't really like being touched by anyone other than Mrs Hudson and now John.

'Goodnight, John.' He whispered, closing his own eyes. He could feel the smile on the blonds face radiate through him, even though it was too dark to see it.

'Goodnight Sherlock.'