John stumbled as he kicked off his shoe. He bumped against the door frame, steadied himself, and realised he probably should have grabbed the frame first before he fumbled the lace. Having figured out the technique, getting rid of the second shoe was much easier than the first. He blinked blearily down at his feet and decided the socks should come off too.

And the jacket.

It took some effort, but eventually John stripped down to his briefs. He really, really, shouldn't have bet Stamford he could drink all those tequila shooters, he told himself as the room dipped and spun in lazy circles. He had, but there were definitely easier ways to earn fifty quid, bragging rights not withstanding.

"Be sorry later." John slurred as he scolded himself. "Bed now."

Bed sounded like an excellent idea. If gravity made good on its threat to take a holiday, he would at least have something to grab onto when the Earth fell away. He staggered the rest of the way into his room, prepared to collapse, and stared as a pair of stereoscopic images fused into one.

There was a body in his bed.

Not a dead body, thank God, but that didn't make the situation any less annoying. John stared muzzily down at the dark, tousled hair and the finely wrought features that in sleep were nearly angelic, and shook his head. He regretted his actions almost immediately.

He collapsed down onto the mattress and poked Sherlock in the shoulder. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock stirred, raising one naked arm over his head as he stretched. When he opened his eyes they shone with their usual keen intelligence. "I should think that would be obvious."

John pushed a hand over his face. Even plastered, he knew he'd walked right into that one. "Yes, but why in my – ?"

Sherlock ruffled the bedding. "Your sheets are crisp."

It took John a few seconds to work that one out. He considered the state of Sherlock's room when he'd seen it earlier that evening. There had been clothes on the floor, a knife lodged in the wall near the dressing table, and although the duvet was flung more or less neatly across the bed, it had been covered by muddy footprints.

"My sheets are clean," he replied sourly. "Maybe if you washed yours?"

Sherlock dismissed the idea with an elegant shrug of his pale shoulders. He made no effort to get up. "I wanted to talk to you."

That much was obvious. When Sherlock had something on his mind he could be annoyingly one tracked about it. "Can't it wait until morning?" John protested. "It's been a long night."

Sherlock regarded him, making his own assessment of John's state of inebriation. "You'll be hungover and irritable. Now will be better."

John eyed the bed. The unoccupied pillow beckoned. He turned his weary gaze on Sherlock and saw the set determination in his expression. With a sigh, John said, "Budge over." He got into bed, pulled the sheet over his chest and rolled onto his hip to regard his flatmate. "Well?"

"I was working in the pathology lab this evening, conducting an experiment. Molly was assisting me."

"Lucky Molly." At breakfast, Sherlock had mentioned looking into the rate of decay of drowned bodies specifically as it applied to the waters of the Thames. John's stomach churned uneasily as he considered what Sherlock had likely been up to, and he was forced to push the thought away.

"She volunteered," Sherlock retorted. "All evening long, she kept staring at my mouth."

John blinked, and then blinked again."Your mouth?" He was suddenly very aware of Sherlock's lips, and the faint scent of tobacco that clung to them. Sherlock had been smoking again.

"She's never been particularly fixated before. I finally had to ask if there was something wrong."

Sherlock had an incredibly expressive mouth. He could convey a variety of emotions with a wry twitch or a disapproving downturn of his lips far more gracefully than most. John found himself staring, seeing Sherlock as Molly must have as he concentrated over his work. He started to reach forward, tempted by the idea of tracing Sherlock's lips with his fingertips. Sherlock did have a pretty mouth. He'd probably be a good kisser, if he bent his mind to it. He realised Sherlock was waiting for a reply.

"And?" he asked, feeling a bit stupid. He had the impression he'd missed something. He'd definitely heard Sherlock's voice, even though he'd lost the thread of the conversation.

"She suddenly remembered a pressing engagement and left very abruptly. Her timing was most inconvenient. That corpse all but fell apart when I tried to move it on my own."

"Is there any way I can get you to stop talking about disintegrating corpses?" John asked as his stomach lurched uncomfortably.

"Do keep up, John." Sherlock sounded vexed.

John did his best to pay attention, but the room still was inclined to take the occasional lazy loop, he was sleepy, and now that he'd got under the covers, he was warm and comfortable. He sighed. This really was too much. Sherlock Holmes, the Great Detective, was confounded by a woman.

"I don't know if you've noticed," he slurred. "but Molly wants you. She was probably thinking about what it would be like to kiss you."

Sherlock sighed. He looked a bit forlorn. "I was afraid that might be it."

John was torn between equally strong urges to shove Sherlock out of the bed for keeping him awake, and pulling his friend into a hug. He did neither. But he couldn't help chuckling. "Poor Molly."

Whilst they were talking, Sherlock had nested, claiming most of the bedding. John yanked it back. They tussled for possession and Sherlock got the upper hand. He nuzzled into the warmth and then asked, "Why 'poor Molly'?"

John jerked the bedding back. Sherlock looked like he might launch a counter offensive. Rather than start on another round of tug of war, John scooted closer until he could feel Sherlock's body heat radiating off him. "She wants to do this."

It didn't seem possible. For a moment, John thought he'd actually hurt Sherlock's feelings. His face fell and his oh so expressive lips twisted into a pout.

"Look," John said quickly, before Sherlock could settle into a sulk. He raised his hand and stared at it for a second before curling some of his fingers against his palm. He realised there were still probably too many, and tried again.

"Two choices." He frowned and stuck up another finger. "Three, if you ignore … the –" he groped for the word. "– thing. Get coffee. Not," he hastened to add, "at the canteen. Somewhere nice. Give her the 'I'm married to my work' speech. Nicely." Problem solved. John closed his eyes. Sherlock in his bed be damned, he was going to go to sleep.

Sherlock poked his arm, goading John back to wakefulness. "Or? You said there was a third choice."

"Date her." How could someone of Sherlock's years not know this? John thought irritably. And why was he, with his lousy track record, giving out relationship advice?

"You don't date a resource, John." Sherlock's reply had a scolding tone, as if he should have known better.

Maybe he should have. Molly let Sherlock get away with murder in her lab. If he upset her, as he inevitably would, she'd probably restrict his access or bar him outright, and John knew that Sherlock would regret that loss far greater than any relationship.

"Fine." John had no idea why they were still having this discussion, but he was determined to end it. "One last piece of advice. After the speech, be sure to kiss her like you would your Great Aunt Mary."

"How do you know about Great Aunt Mary?"

John sighed. This time he didn't hide his frustration. "Most families have one. Kiss Molly on the cheek. Don't linger. Promise ... that will be the end of it."

Unreasonably, Sherlock still sounded doubtful. "You're certain?"

There really only did seem to be one thing for it. John leaned forward, gave Sherlock an impersonal peck on the cheek, and then rolled over onto his other side. "Go to sleep, Sherlock."

The mattress shifted and a draft of cool air made John shiver as Sherlock got out of the bed. The click of the door as it closed was unconscionably loud. As the first melancholy strains of Sherlock's violin drifted out from the living room, John felt an odd, mawkish pang of regret as he was finally claimed by sleep.