John stopped mid-way up the stairs to steady himself, trying to focus on his balance. He hadn't realised he had drunk a bit more than he should, but the following day was a day off work, so it was really of no importance. He cleared his throat and continued to climb the stairs, trying not to make much noise. However, when he reached the top of the stairs and entered the living room, Sherlock was there to greet him.

A newspaper covered all of Sherlock's face so John could only guess the expression he would find there. It didn't take long to find out though, because Sherlock straightened himself up and faced John with curiosity.

"Had fun?" he asked.

The question was relaxed enough. It was late, but both John and Sherlock had agreed that John needed his time with people and Sherlock was not good at social interactions.

"Yeah," John answered, removing his shoes and approaching Sherlock, placing a kiss on his forehead, making pressure on his shoulders. Sherlock felt the smell of alcohol, John's voice was just slightly slurred, and the sleeve of his shirt stained. He had spilled a drink. "Lestrade was able to show up after all, we were discussing a few of the most recent cases," John sat on the couch, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. "What about you? What did you do all evening?"

"Not much."

As usual, Sherlock's answer was short and unrevealing. John was accustomed to this so he didn't say anything. He yawned. All he wanted was to lie down in bed and curl against Sherlock, but he had spilled a drink over his arm and he needed to take a shower first.

He stared at Sherlock to tell him this when something in the detective's expression made him stop. He frowned.

"His everything okay?"

Sherlock bit his lip. He didn't want to pressure John but in all honestly he was tired of the secrecy and he hadn't told Lestrade yet just out of shear respect for John. John had said he needed time to get accustomed to the idea of sharing their secret, their relationship, to have others putting labels on him straight away, but Sherlock thought he had given him more than enough time. And what did it matter what others thought, anyway? Even if the whole wide world was against them – which was obviously a big dramatization of the whole situation – they would still have each other, wouldn't they? Sherlock didn't need anything else, just John. So he wondered why John needed more time.

"Have you told them yet?"

John clenched his jaw as Sherlock made the question. Every time John went out with his friends – old friends he had encountered from his military times, Mike Stamford and even Lestrade – they had this conversation. And every time John's answer was the same. It didn't change this time.

"No, not yet."

Sherlock didn't say anything. By now he knew that there was no use in dwelling on the matter when John's answer was the one he feared, but expected nonetheless. He knew the outcome would only be another fight and he was tired of them.

"Will you ever tell them?"

This was a new question and it took John by surprise.

"Of course. Of course I will, I just need a bit of time."

Sherlock was going to ask 'how much more?' but once again he realised that it would bear no good outcome, just both of them shouting at each other. Mrs. Hudson had had enough of that as it was, always over the same matter, so he shut up.

John's heart became tiny in his chest as he took in the latent sadness that spread over Sherlock's face and he wanted to reach out and touch Sherlock, tell him to cheer up, but Sherlock's hurt feelings at the moment were his fault and he wouldn't know what to say without making himself look stupid. After all, even he didn't understand this delay, this putting off of something apparently so simple. If they loved each other why hide it? It would come out sooner or later, so why did he keep postponing the announcement? He didn't have a concise answer, not even to himself, despite fear. A fear he couldn't even explain.

Sherlock got up and placed the newspaper over the sofa on the spot he had been occupying all evening.

"Go take your shower," he said. "I'll be waiting for you in bed."

He didn't wait for a response; he darted away, leaving John alone. When John went to bed, Sherlock was already sleeping and he knew that that conversation was over. At least for now.

Two weeks later John is storming up the stairs calling Sherlock's name. Sherlock stops his experiment and removes his goggles, facing John.

"What is it?" he asks, slightly alarmed.

"Get ready," John says, smiling. "I got you a case."

"Weren't you going out with your friends today?"

John nodded.

"Well, yeah, that's exactly why I have a case. One of the guys at the bar told me a very weird story that I think you'll like. Come on, they're waiting."

"What was the story about?" Sherlock seemed a bit nonchalant but he removed his nightgown nevertheless.

"You better hear it from the horse's mouth. He'll tell you all the details."

Sherlock nodded and fifteen minutes later they were getting out of the cab in front of the bar John usually went to with his friends. It was a pleasant evening but Sherlock still adjusted the scarf on his neck. John's friends and interaction in general made him feel anxious, so this case better be good.

John stepped out of the cab and looked at Sherlock. Then, he held his hand, interlacing his fingers in his. Sherlock frowned. John always held his hand in dark empty alleys and deserted streets, never when there was a chance of being seen. John smiled at him and then started pacing towards the bar with determination.

The bar was loud and Sherlock, tall amongst the crowd, saw Mike, Lestrade and what he deduced were John's friends from his time in Afghanistan all sitting together at a corner, chatting animatedly. John took a step forward and Sherlock grabbed his hand, stopping him.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

John faced him and then smiled just a little.

"Proving that I love you and that I am not ashamed of it, I suppose. In a way, at least."

And he held Sherlock's hand tighter, a look saying more than he possibly could any other way.

The table roared with enthusiasm when they watched John approaching, more even because he had brought Sherlock along. When John and Sherlock stopped in front of them they grew silent, seeing as they were holding hands.

"Hi guys, I would like you all to meet my boyfriend and partner, Sherlock Holmes."

The other men looked at each other and then the whole table burst into laughter. John and Sherlock stared at each other, brows furrowing. Then, as Lestrade pulled them both to sit down and various amounts of money circled the table, it all became clear.

John gazed at Mike.

"You made bets?"

Mike was grinning ear to ear.

"Bloody sure we did. And I tell you, I won't need to pay for booze for a long time. Lestrade is the real winner though; I thought you would admit it sooner."

John scoffed and then he stared at Sherlock, gauging his reaction. Sherlock smiled and to John's surprise took the pint someone passed him from across the table, cheering with them. John held his hand tighter, wondering why on earth had he been such a bloody fool for so long. Sherlock, on the other hand, couldn't wait to get home and show John how thankful he was that they wouldn't have to steal furtive kisses anymore.

When they left together Lestrade moved from his sit and sat next to Mike.

"So, if you ever get fired, go for a match-making company."

Mike laughed.

"Glad you enjoy my services mate, though they seem to work for some better than for others."

"What do you mean?" Lestrade asked.

Mike pointed at the door, where Molly, by Mike's invitation, was standing staring around and looking for them. She waved when she saw Mike and started to pace towards them.

"She'll need a ride home later," Mike advised with a suggestive look.

And he moved a sit, leaving an empty space for Molly next to Lestrade.