Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or Sherlock. If I did, I would be rich and obviously not writing fan fiction.

*Also, this idea has probably been done before, so any similarities to other people's work is purely coincidental.

1.

Sherlock was lost. It wasn't the first time he'd been to London, of course. But this was his first trip to the city alone. Mycroft was supposed to meet him at King's Cross, but must have been detained; Sherlock had waited for nearly an hour before determinedly setting off on his own.

But, being 12 years old and growing up in a small town, he wasn't very knowledgeable about navigating these crowded, inconsistently laid-out streets. Sherlock looked around hopelessly. If he could only get to Hyde Park, he would be fine, but he really had no idea where he was.

Sherlock huffed, leaning against a shabby building. He scowled at the people passing him by, wondering how they could keep London's streets straight in their sad little brains. He swore one day, when he lived here, he would memorize the bloody whole of that blasted London A-Z.

Just then, Sherlock saw a blur of movement as someone – a teenager by the looks of his build – bolted past him. Sherlock could just barely make out a mop of dark blond hair before he was gone, disappeared around a corner. A shout rang up from down the street, where the boy had come from, declaring that the speaker was going to "bloody kill you!"

A girl of about 13 ran up, stopping in front of Sherlock and glancing about madly. Judging by her hair color – dark blond, the same as the teenager's, though infinitely more wild – and the unmistakable fury brought about by an obvious sibling rivalry – something that Sherlock was all too familiar with – the girl was the teenager's younger sister.

She bent over, resting her hands on her knees as she caught her breath, then glanced over to see Sherlock staring at her. Her bright blue eyes narrowed. "What're you looking at?" she growled.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You," he said defiantly. "My brother used to always take my things without asking, so I adopted the habit of using his for my experiments. What'd yours do?"

"How d'you know he's my brother?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Obvious."

Her lips thinned as she studied him, then, seemingly deciding that he was okay, she stuck her hand out. "Harry."

He eyed her offered hand distastefully, tightening his crossed arms. "Sherlock," he replied. He raised his eyebrows as she looked at him expectantly, then looked her up and down. 13 years old, low-income family judging by the generic brand of clothes (though well-kept and surprisingly well-dressed), openly homosexual, already skilled at applying make-up. Compensating for being the youngest offspring, who are often treated as children well into the teen years, with adult-like behavior. "Acting like an adult won't make you one."

She dropped her hand, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Sherlock?" she said, ignoring his remark. "What kind of name is that?" She snorted.

Sherlock scowled at her. "A family name. After my great- great- great-grandfather, or something like that. Apparently he was some famous detective in the 1890s. Lucky me."

She pursed her lips and nodded. Then, with a great sigh and a sweep of her hand in the general direction her brother had disappeared in, she said, "He read my diary and told my friend that I fancy her."

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. "Dull."

Harry huffed and put her hands on her hips. "You asked." He shrugged. She gazed at him a bit more closely. "What're you doing here anyway? You lost?"

"No," he answered sharply. He didn't need some scrawny girl laughing at him because he couldn't find his own way. "I'm on my way to my brother's flat."

"And you got lost." She smirked. "If you want some directions, all you need to do is ask."

"I'm not lost," Sherlock said, gritting his teeth. She raised her eyebrows pointedly and he sighed again. "Although, since you suggested it, I wouldn't decline an offer of directions. Hyde Park?"

"What, seriously?" Sherlock just stared at her expectantly. "Right at the corner, three streets down turn left, and just keep going until you hit it."

Sherlock nodded and pushed off the wall, heading in the direction she'd pointed him to. "You're welcome," she said, eyebrows raised as he passed, but he just waved his hand vaguely in her direction. He heard her muttering vaguely about rudeness and ungrateful prats, then set off most likely to find her brother and strangle him.

2.

Normally Sherlock despised field trips. Dozens of students being shepherded around crowded museums like cattle, but following each other blindly like sheep? It was a nightmare. He often slipped away from the cacophony to wander the halls on his own, a much more pleasant pastime than being expected to fill his mind with the useless information the guides tried to shove down their throats.

This time, though, he was actually looking forward to it. He would even dare to say he was excited. He and one other student – whose name he couldn't be bothered to remember – from his advanced anatomy class had opted out of a day off class to go sit in on a few classes at Barts in London. The intellectual opportunity was worth having to go through it with another student, a rather mind-numbingly ordinary one, as well.

He was, in fact, rather enjoying himself until the lunch period rolled around. It was about that time that he was beginning to feel the itch for a quick fag, but he didn't know the way around, and didn't want to risk being late to the next class. So, with irritation beginning to bubble, he followed the crowd to the lunchroom.

There were people everywhere. He skirted around a large group of guys cheering on what seemed to be an arm-wrestling match and joined the long line of people waiting for food. He ended up sandwiched between a group of girls gossiping about another girl named Lisa and the latest guy she'd been seen with, and an overly affectionate couple who kept bumping into him. He crossed his arms, trying to make himself as small as possible to avoid being touched by anyone, but it was no use. There were simply too many people crowded around him.

When he finally got his food, he made a beeline for the corner of the room, where one of the few empty tables resided. He slid into the seat, sighing in relief at finally being away from all the jostling. He stared down at his food, now feeling too nauseated to want to eat. His skin was crawling. He hated being touched, even by his own family. Being touched by strangers was horrifying.

He picked at his food glumly, staring at the activity around him. He could feel that itch for a fag intensifying, more so now to comfort him than anything, but there were only ten minutes left before the next class, and he certainly didn't want to miss it.

As he glanced about the room, he noticed a young man – about 22 or 23 years old – searching for a place to sit, clutching a tray of food in a tight grip. He was plain looking with short, dirty blond hair and a slightly upturned nose. But there was something about him. . . . Sherlock couldn't tear his eyes away. The man glanced at Sherlock, then did a double take, their eyes locking. A slight smile tugged at his mouth and he started walking towards him.

Sherlock suddenly didn't know what to do with himself. Should he look away? Or keep eye contact? Would he be expected to make small talk? He wasn't very good at that. His fingers nervously began playing with his fork, and he wished he had his violin right now, just to give his fingers something to do.

Suddenly, a girl slid into the seat across from him, blocking his view of the man. He strained to see around her, watching as the man stopped abruptly, and quickly settled stiffly into the closest empty seat. Sherlock sighed and turned a glare onto the girl.

She didn't seem to notice, as she smiled and said, "Hi, Sherlock."

Oh. It was the other student. Ginny? Jessie? Something like that. "Jenny," he settled on, with a curt nod.

Her smile wavered slightly. "Jamie," she corrected, her tone suggesting that this was not the first time today she'd had to correct him on the subject of her name. He merely shrugged.

They ate in silence for the remainder of the period.

Within hours, Sherlock had deleted the whole of the lunch hour from his brain – including the other student's name; really, he couldn't be bothered with such frivolity – to make room for some frankly fascinating information about the effects of certain poisons on the human body.

3.

When he woke, his vision was hazy. He raised his hand to his aching forehead, then held it in front of his face, staring at the wires sticking out of his hand and arm. Hospital. He tried to sit up, groaning. His body was aching, worse this time than any of the other times. He let his head fall back onto the pillow, cradling his aching head.

A sigh came from his left. "Cocaine?" a familiar voice asked. Sherlock groaned again, turning his head to the side to see his older brother sitting next to him, looking down at him disapprovingly. "Heroin?" Mycroft continued. "Really, Sherlock, the smoking was bad enough."

Sherlock allowed a dry laugh as he pointed out, "You smoke, too."

"Not for a year now."

He ignored this. "What happened?"

"You overdosed. You're lucky I was on my way to your flat already. If I hadn't found you so soon you would be dead." Mycroft leaned forward. "What were you trying to do, Sherlock?" Sherlock turned away silently, not responding. "Did you want to kill yourself?" Mycroft pressed. "Is that it?" He still didn't respond. "What's happened to you? You drop out of university, don't contact me or Mummy for over a year. I had to beg to borrow the resources to find you. And when I do you're passed out on the floor of your dingy, unfurnished flat, your landlord pretending he doesn't know what you're doing up there."

"I learned all I could from university. Everything practical they offered, everything interesting. I'm done with it. It was time to move on."

"Practical?" Mycroft repeated, his tone becoming increasingly strained. "You think this is about being practical? You think life is always going to be interesting for you? It's not about what you bloody want, it's about being able to find a fucking job."

A sudden, insistent rap on the door interrupted Mycroft's lecture. Without waiting for an answer, it was pushed open and an older doctor came in, flipping through what was presumably Sherlock's patient chart, followed by a young blond doctor. The older doctor flipped the chart closed and smiled at the two of them, either unaware of the tense atmosphere in the room or ignoring it. "So," he began, but he never got the chance to finish.

Mycroft gave him the coldest glare Sherlock had ever seen. "Not now," he snapped, his lip curling.

The older doctor jumped and retreated quickly with a hasty apology. The younger doctor lagged behind, though, scrutinizing Sherlock with narrowed eyes, a confused look on his face. Sherlock stared at him right back, feeling a sense of familiarity to him. He frowned as the doctor finally left, closing the door behind him and throwing Sherlock one more confused glance.

"Who was that?" Sherlock asked immediately after the door had been closed.

"Your doctor," Mycroft answered, looking displeased. "Though he may not be yours for much longer." He glanced at his watch and sighed laboriously.

"No." Sherlock shook his head and looked back over at Mycroft. "The other one."

Mycroft stood, straightening out his suit. "Just some trainee fresh out of medical school. He's not important." He grabbed his overcoat, folding it over his forearm, his lips thinning as he stared down at Sherlock. "I have to go, but I'll be back tomorrow. Follow your doctor's orders, Sherlock. Mummy sends her love. And for all our sake, get your life together." He lumbered out of the room without a glance back.

Sherlock sank back into his pillows, wondering why indeed he felt that that blond student was important. He seemed like nothing particularly special. Plain, ordinary, just like everybody else on the planet. But there was something Sherlock couldn't shake about him.

He waited for the blond doctor to return, but by the time he was released two weeks later, it became clear to Sherlock that Mycroft had, in fact, reassigned doctors to Sherlock. He didn't see any sign of the blond doctor or his overseer.

4.

"No. Absolutely not."

Sherlock found himself being grabbed from behind by the collar on his coat. The grabber hauled him up from where he had hidden himself behind the bins and whirled him around.

"You cannot be here," DS Lestrade growled. "The last time was a fluke. The witness mistook you for the victim's friend and you butted your way in. Not this time. You have no reason to be here."

"I can help," Sherlock insisted. "You've arrested the wrong man."

"No," Lestrade repeated. "Last time you just happened upon the killer's trail. It was all coincidental."

Sherlock snorted. "No, I just happened to observe the crime scene. The killer was obvious. If you and the rest of the police used even a quarter of your brains it would have been obvious to you, as well."

Lestrade nodded angrily. "Right. That's it." He shoved Sherlock in front of him, pushing him towards the street. "You need to leave, or I'll arrest you for trespassing on a crime scene and obstruction of justice."

"Obstruction? I'm trying to aid you, not obstruct you." Sherlock spun violently, breaking Lestrade's grip on his coat. "Don't just look," he said pointing at the crime scene. "Observe. Deduce. Everything you need to find the real killer is staring you right in the face." Sherlock lurched forward and crouched down. "These footprints," he said, pointing at the mess of mud on the ground. "Three distinct pairs of feet. Three going in. The victim, the boyfriend, and the killer. Only one coming out."

Lestrade reached down to pull Sherlock up and away again, but Sherlock twisted and grabbed his arm, his grasp firm, insistent. "Just listen." Lestrade considered his options, then sighed, releasing his grip. He leaned over Sherlock, staring down at the mud.

"The victim's are here," Sherlock said, indicating a path of small footprints leading towards the house. "Size 4 feet. Here," he said, pointing to a trail of significantly larger footprints, "are her boyfriend's. Size 10. Look. His trail is fresh; he was the most recent to approach the house, and there is no trail leading back anywhere." He pointed to the last trail of footprints, leading towards and then away from the house. "The killer's footprints leading into the house are nearly washed away from the recent rain. He entered the house first and waited for the victim to come home, then shot her, and left. Size 8 feet. Mike Stamford is not the killer."

Lestrade's jaw clenched. Sherlock watched his face with narrowed eyes, certain that the sergeant was trying to find any fault in Sherlock's deductions. He took a breath and suggested, "Maybe the third set belong to someone who left before the victim even arrived. A visitor, or a neighbor, or a salesperson. No answer at the door so they left."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Look at them. The set leading away was clearly made after the victim's leading in. And I guarantee you'll find his muddy footprints tracked all over the inside of the house."

Lestrade glared at Sherlock, his mind whirring away to find any other flaws. Finally, he sighed and drew his radio to his mouth. "New evidence discovered. Suspect in custody isn't our guy. Release him." The radio crackled back an affirmative and Lestrade heaved Sherlock to his feet. "Alright, then, genius. Any idea who the killer is?"

Sherlock turned his head away as a smile twitched on his lips and he began walking towards the taped off driveway, Lestrade following closely. "You're all wrong. It wasn't completely premeditated. It was accidental."

"What makes you say that?" Lestrade asked, nearly jogging to keep up with Sherlock's much larger, much faster stride.

"Don't you lot pay any attention to forensics?" Annoyance dripped from his voice. "There wasn't enough blood on the crime scene for a chest wound. So, what then? Something staunched the flow. Let's think for a minute." Sherlock stopped abruptly, whipping around. Lestrade took an involuntary step back, but Sherlock just took a step closer, leaning down slightly to lessen the space between them. "Who was there at the time of the shooting to stop the blood flow? And why, if they brought a gun and were clearly planning to use it, did they try to save their victim?" Lestrade spluttered. "Come on, now. Think!" Sherlock insisted.

"I don't. . . ." Lestrade's eyes widened. "The victim wasn't the target. He was expecting someone else."

This time, Sherlock let the grin spread wide across his face. "Exactly!" he said, grasping Lestrade's shoulders. He spun and began walking again.

"Who then?"

"The target was Mike Stamford," Sherlock said, catching sight of Stamford heading towards him at that moment. "And the killer? The victim's father."

"The father?" Lestrade repeated, just as Stamford reached them.

"Mr. Holmes," Stamford said gleefully, his eyes shining. "Thank you so much."

"Sherlock, please." He'd always hated being called Mr. Holmes. It reminded him too much of his father. And, now, Mycroft. He brushed past Stamford, but slowed his pace slightly for both Stamford and Lestrade to follow him more closely. "How did you know it was me?"

"I saw you. Talking to the Detective Sergeant." He gave a slight nod to Lestrade. "And one of the other officers referred to you as. . . ." He drifted off, his face reddening slightly.

Sherlock's eyebrows lifted. "Yes?" he pressed.

"'That freak, Holmes'," he continued, his voice quiet.

Sherlock sniffed. No doubt that had been that blithering fool, Anderson, who'd contaminated some of the evidence on the last case. "The opinion idiots have of me is of no great importance."

"Well, I think you're fantastic!" Stamford oozed. "Really, I couldn't be more grateful. Is there anything I can do to repay you?"

They had reached the tape line by then and Lestrade lifted it up so Stamford could pass under it. Sherlock made to swoop below it, as well, but Lestrade grabbed his arm, saying, "No, we have some things to discuss."

Sherlock sighed and, to Stamford, said, "No there's nothing at the moment."

"Well, if there's ever anything you need," Stamford said. "Any favor or anything I can do, just let me know." He pressed a business card into Sherlock's hand. He glanced behind him. "I'd best be off. My friend, John, is waiting for me," he said, indicating a blond man dressed in fatigues waiting anxiously down the street. "I called him, when I found. . . ." His voice caught in his throat as he suddenly remembered the circumstances of this meeting. "Well, anyway. Thank you again."

Sherlock watched as he bustled off to join his friend, who pulled him into a hug. They stood there for several more moments, talking, before starting off down the street and disappearing around the corner. He looked down at the business card in his hand: Dr. Michael Stamford, St. Bartholomew's, and both an office and personal phone number.

Lestrade yanked him off to the side as he pocketed the card. "The father?" Lestrade reminded him.

Sherlock nodded. "Ah, yes. Overprotective father, didn't approve of his daughter's choice in boyfriends. Unhappy with the news that they had moved in together. He was waiting for Stamford, but his daughter arrived home first. He didn't hesitate when he saw someone come into the living room, didn't take the time to register who it was. Just took aim, and shot."

And One Time They Did

This was a peculiar situation. Sherlock had followed a lead on the case he was working on to a bar, only to find that it was a dead end, and the bar he was in just happened to be a gay bar. Somehow, in the time it took for him to push his way from the restrooms up to the exit, he'd been supplied with and consumed three shots, several beers, and a few more shots. It came as no surprise to him that he was now intoxicated. His mind was fuzzy and he was stumbling towards the door, bumping into the people around him. He'd experimented with it a bit in university, but alcohol had never been his drug of choice. Rather than enhancing senses, it inhibited. Rather than expanding brain power, it narrowed it. He hated the feeling of being drunk.

Now, as he tried to get rid of the drink that had been pushed into his hand so he could leave, he felt an arm slip round his shoulders. Hot breath tickled his ear as a deep voice said, "Leaving so soon?"

Sherlock shuddered at the overfamiliar touch, slipping the arm off his shoulders and trying to slip away, but his assailant was having none of that. He grabbed Sherlock's arm and spun him around so they were facing each other. The man had light brown hair and was about the same height as Sherlock, but was much larger and extremely well-built. Sherlock was more than confident in his ability to defend himself, and on any other night would have been able to take this man if it came down to a fight. But tonight, with the size difference and his level of inebriation, he would be a fool to try anything.

A smile slithered onto the man's face. "Come on, gorgeous. Don't be shy. I'll buy you a drink."

He held up the now half-full margarita that had somehow found its way to his hand. "Got one," he said, his words slurred.

"Well then, how's about we get outta here. I'll grab a cab, take you anywhere you want to go."

"Not interested." Sherlock tried to wrench his arm out of this cretin's grasp, but it was too strong.

"Oh, come on, gorgeous, give us a chance, yeah?" He leered over Sherlock, reaching his hand up to the back of Sherlock's neck.

But before he could place his hand there, a different one was in its place. A steady, comforting hand that pulled Sherlock's head down and to the side as a light kiss was placed at the corner of his mouth. Sherlock looked down to see a short man with a buzz cut and a slightly upturned nose smiling up at him encouragingly.

"Here you are, love. I was afraid you'd left me while I was in the loo." He kept the smile on his face as he turned to face the brunette man, but the smile turned stiff as he nodded at the hand still holding Sherlock's arm. "D'you mind?" his asked, keeping his tone breezy, but there was a layer of danger hidden beneath the polite tones.

The man glanced back to Sherlock, seemingly waiting for his reaction to this new development. Sherlock considered other options, but there weren't any so convenient or available and so, without hesitation, he slipped his own arm around the shorter man's waist. "I would be careful, if I were you," Sherlock said to his accoster, feigning politeness. "You see, my boyfriend here is in the military, and he's quite a jealous and protective man. I wouldn't want anyone to get hurt." He felt the shorter man start slightly at the mention of the military and a smile crept onto his face.

The brunette released him after a glance at the shorter man and held his hands up. "Boyfriend, huh? Well, why didn't you say so?" He lowered his arms and smiled at the two of them, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "No harm done then, eh?" He backed off, disappearing into a crowd of people with a glance behind.

Both Sherlock and his rescuer relaxed visibly and they turned to each other. The shorter man's eyes were wary as he asked, "How did you know?" He shook his head slightly. "About my being in the military, I mean?"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "One look at your carriage, your posture, and it's obvious."

He nodded stiffly, then held out his hand. "John."

"Sherlock," he answered, taking his hand and shaking it firmly after a moment's hesitation. Physical contact was something he reluctantly endured, but, for some reason, with this man, John, it didn't cause any sort of anxiety whatsoever. "I was just . . . leaving." He pointed to the door, which John was standing in front of.

John glanced behind him and nodded. "Ah, right." He stepped to the side and Sherlock made to move past him. "Unless. . . ." John placed his hand lightly on Sherlock's shoulder. It wasn't a threatening, insistent gesture – like the brunette's from earlier. No, this was a suggestion, an invitation. Sherlock turned back around. "Unless you'd like to join me."

Sherlock was slightly surprised to see that John's cheeks were flushed. His eyebrows rose. "Yes, I suppose that could be. . . ." He looked down, pausing. "Pleasurable."

As he followed John back to his table, he felt his own cheeks burning. He shook his head. It must be the alcohol, he insisted. He'd never felt interest like this in anyone before. It had to be the alcohol.

John shook his head before sliding into the booth, a chagrined grin spreading across his face. At Sherlock's inquisitive look, he explained, "I was here with my sister. Her idea to come out tonight, actually. I'm shipping out in two days, and she thought it would be fun if I let loose a little before getting 'stuck in Afghanistan'." He chuckled. "I think that's how she put it. This was supposed to be one stop out of many, but she obviously thinks I've found something better to. . . ." He paused, looking embarrassed. "To . . . well . . . do."

Sherlock choked slightly on the sip he'd taken from his drink. "And is that what's going to happen?" he asked, his voice slightly wheezy.

John smiled, slightly bashfully. "Well, she certainly thinks it is." His expression turned serious. "But . . . no. I mean, no offense to you. You're. . . . I mean, there's no doubt you're attractive." He chuckled, his cheeks tinged pink again. "But I'm just not the sort of bloke who goes around to random pubs and picks up one night stands."

However, despite this insistence, after countless drinks and increasingly unintelligible conversation – during which Sherlock was surprised to find he enjoyed himself immensely; he certainly laughed enough – the two of them found themselves out in the alley next to the bar, stumbling along it until one of them – Sherlock wasn't certain which – fell, taking the other down with him. They both burst out laughing, but they quieted quickly as they both noticed just how close the other was.

Again, Sherlock wasn't sure who initiated it, but all of a sudden the distance between them was gone. John's arms were wrapped tightly around his neck and he was insistently pulling Sherlock's body closer. Sherlock, to his own surprise, had tightened his own arms around John's waist and, before he knew what it was doing, one of his hands was slinking up John's back to his neck. Their lips clashed together furiously, and Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to do. He'd been kissed before, but hadn't reciprocated, and never had he been kissed like this.

John's hand slid up into his hair, grasping at the slightly wild curls. Sherlock felt a low, rumbling moan echo through his body, and he pulled away in surprise. John was leaning against the alley wall, Sherlock hovering over him. He looked up at Sherlock, heat in his strong, blue eyes, before pulling Sherlock's head back down.

This time, though, he twisted his head, pressing his lips to he corner of Sherlock's jawline. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed as John kissed and nibbled his way slowly down until he was sucking on his collarbone. Sherlock shivered, leaning his hand against the wall to hold himself steady. John was making his way back up. He paused for a moment just below Sherlock's ear, biting the tender skin there until Sherlock moaned again. Then he tilted his head slightly up, sucked Sherlock's earlobe into his mouth, and bit down on it softly, his tongue circling around it.

Sherlock groaned and pulled away, taking back control of the situation. Vaguely, he felt a confused portion of his mind – the logical portion, he assumed – wondering just what it was he was doing. But he was beyond caring at the moment. The alcohol had dulled all of his better reasoning, and besides that, there was the irrefutable fact that this just felt too good to stop.

He stood, pulling John up with him and pushed him against the wall, pressing against him. His hand slid up to John's hair and his thumb rubbed over the short strands. Idly he wished that John's hair was slightly longer, so that he could grab it, even tug on it, if he wished.

But the thought passed when he suddenly felt John's hands brush his bare skin just above his pant line. His hands slid up underneath the hem of his shirt, gliding over the smooth skin of his back. Sherlock dropped his head down, brushing his lips against John's once more. He ran his tongue over John's lips, and at once they opened, allowing Sherlock's tongue entry. He explored the new territory with wonder, John's own tongue sliding around his until Sherlock could no longer concentrate on mapping out his mouth.

Sherlock pulled away slightly and moved his lips down to John's jawline, down his the side of his neck, and stopped at the hollow of his throat, teasing the sensitive skin there until John was trembling. He began tugging at the hem of John's jumper, breaking their contact briefly to pull it up over his head to reveal a tight wife beater beneath. He ran his hands over the pronounced muscles in John's chest, his tongue still circling around the hollow at his throat.

John's hands clenched on Sherlock's shoulders and he shook his head. "I'm not. . . ." He groaned as Sherlock's thumb ran over his nipple. "I'm not shagging you in a. . . ." He gasped. "Dingy . . . alley." He pushed Sherlock slightly back, his breathing heavy. "Getting a bit too old for that."

Sherlock gave him a devilish grin that made John's breath catch. "Then let's get a taxi."

So, after John put his jumper back on – because, after all, it was a bit nippy – they practically sprinted back down the alleyway, grinning and giggling like teenage girls. They stood in front of the bar, leaning into each other, waiting for a taxi to drive by so they could flag it down. Sherlock slipped his hand under John's jumper, sliding it up his back. John slipped his own into the back pocket of Sherlock's trousers, squeezing his bum slightly and causing Sherlock to start. John grinned.

A loud squeal caught their attention and they both turned to look, spotting a couple down the street, wrapped in an embrace, as the source of the noise. John squinted at them, his face falling and his mood souring instantaneously. "Oh, my God," he muttered. Sherlock slid his hand out, placing it on John's arm. "That's my sister."

He stormed off, anger suddenly rolling off him. His back straightened, his head held high and his chin jutting out. Sherlock followed him uncertainly, his own mood suddenly darkened.

"Harry!" John snapped. The couple broke apart and one of the women, presumably Harry, stumbled away from the other.

She grinned at her brother through her wild curls. "Jooooohn," she called, giggling. Her ankle twisted as she stepped on her heels wrong and she fell, John lurching forward to catch her. She giggled again, patting his cheek. "My hero!" she declared.

"How much did you have to drink this time?" he growled, the situation seeming to have sobered him up considerably.

"Enough," she answered. He hauled her to her feet. Her words were slurring together. "Seems slike you did, too," she said, catching sight of Sherlock waiting awkwardly behind John and eyeing him appreciatively. She wiggled her eyebrows at John. "He's dashing. Slept wif 'im yet?" She leaned in closer to him, clearly attempting to whisper, but failing.

John groaned, his nose wrinkling at Harry's breath. "You know, this isn't about me. Just what do you think you're doing? What about Clara?"

Harry pouted. "Clara's sssssooooooo boring," she complained, her tone horribly whiny. "She won't le'me drink anyfing. You wou'n't, either," she added, glaring at him. "Amy's more fun. She bought me tons of drinks." She pointed behind her, then exclaimed, "Oh! She's gone!" She pushed John away. "You scrayed her away!" She paused, giggling again. "Sraked. Scared."

He sighed again. "I think it's time to get you home."

She stuck her chin out stubbornly. "I don't wan' to go home." She glanced back at Sherlock. "And I don't fink you wan' to, either."

John turned to Sherlock. "Look, I'm sorry about this. But she's my sister, and she's got a bit of a drinking problem."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, it's fine. It's probably for the best. One night stands, and all that." He looked away, feeling rejected and . . . disappointed?

John nodded and waved down a passing cab as Sherlock started off, walking down the road. He glanced behind him to see John helping Harry into the cab. He looked up before getting in, his eyes catching Sherlock's. They both stayed like that for a few moments, both of them feeling as if, somehow, they'd just been cheated out of something more than just a night together. Something important. Something monumental.

And then the moment passed. John slid into the cab, Harry slumping against his shoulder as the cab pulled away. Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets and continued on his way. As he walked, his brain began running in overtime, making up for it's unplanned shut off that night. By the time he flagged a cab down and took it to his flat, he'd come to the realization that he'd been impossibly stupid tonight, and the only reason he'd reacted that way to John was because of the innumerable drinks he'd had. Relationships. Sex. It was all too messy and emotional. He would rather be alone than tangled up in the monotony of a romantic entanglement.

When he woke the next morning, finding himself slumped on the couch, he had a massive headache and a nauseous stomach. He tried to recover the events of the previous night from his memory, feeling that there was something paramount that he was missing, but it was no use. The last thing he remembered was that brown-haired man grabbing his arm. After that, his memory was blank.