A/N - Originally posted on AO3. Thought I'd post it here too. :)

Summary - "Sherlock is pissed because it seems that four pints of larger, two shots of tequila and a glass of wine has resulted in Lestrade becoming a little bit too friendly with everyone. And by everyone, Sherlock really means John."

Sherlock is pissed.

Not a drunken kind of pissed. No, Sherlock is a hands clenched, teeth gritted, eyebrows knitted together kind of pissed.

John is drunkenly pissed. So are Lestrade and Molly, and hell, even Mrs. Hudson seems to have had a few too many tonight.

They're in a pub just down the road from Baker Street, much to Sherlock's dismay. It's Boxing Day, and John had suggested that the five of them go out for a few drinks to celebrate Christmas as they had been unable to do so the previous day.

Much to Sherlock's delight, the usual festivities such as present exchanging, cracker pulling and unnecessary consuming of turkey, Christmas pudding and wine had to be put on hold due to a rather important case that had come about.

Sherlock had been more than happy to pluck the poorly wrapped gift from John's hands and drag the reluctant doctor to the awaiting crime scene. It took Sherlock, John and Lestrade most of the day to track down the killer and solve the case and by the time they three men arrived back at Baker Street, neither John or Lestrade had the energy to celebrate. Sherlock had merely rolled his eyes at them and said that solving that case was the best way they could have spent their Christmas before retreating to the kitchen to work on his experiments.

So, as a result of the case, Sherlock was now forced to sit in the cramped, dirty booth of the pub, and watch his associates laugh and chat as they drank seemingly endless amounts of alcohol. But this is not the reason that Sherlock is pissed.

No. Sherlock is pissed because it seems that four pints of larger, two shots of tequila and a glass of wine has resulted in Lestrade becoming a little bit too friendly with everyone. And by everyone, Sherlock really means John.

Though the consulting detective would never openly admit it, he was jealous. Yes, Sherlock Holmes was jealous. He'd grown rather fond of the army doctor during their time together. It had almost been three years that he had known John, and with each passing day John became more and more interesting to the taller man.

John was the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock had ever had, if you didn't include his childhood dog Red Beard. Like his canine companion, John had a way of being able to calm Sherlock down, to ground him. When Sherlock was around John, he felt almost the littlest bit…normal. Not that Sherlock wanted to be normal, he was perfectly fine with his high functioning, sociopathic ways. Who wouldn't be? But the change in character that overtook him when John was around was intriguing. John was able to draw emotions out of Sherlock that he would hardly ever feel, or if he did feel them he would certainly push them down to the deepest darkest corner of his mind palace and never think about them again. Though Sherlock rarely showed these emotions he experienced in John's presence, he was still aware of them, and he knew the reason behind them.

He liked John.

It was as simple as that.

Sherlock felt a sense of protectiveness when he was around John. He knew all well that the doctor was fully capable of looking after himself, he wassoldier after all. But Sherlock was still always thinking of his friend's safety when they were on cases or even when John was out with friends. The thought of John being in danger had the detective thinking of every possible way to destroy whoever or whatever had put his army doctor at risk. He cared deeply for John, more than anyone else he allowed himself to care for. And there was always that desire that lurked deep inside Sherlock, the desire to have John all to himself. Wrap him up in his arms and keep everybody else away from him because John was his.

But the reality of it was… John wasn't his. Well, not in everybody else's eyes, anyway, and definitely not in John's. From what the detective could gather from the years he'd known John, the army doctor showed no signs of having any feelings other than friendly ones towards him.

And if Sherlock was completely honest with you, it really fucking hurt.

So here he sat, in the small dingy bar, watching as Lestrade fussed over his John. Greg, Graham? - was now leaned back in his chair with an arm over John's shoulders. This was strange, Sherlock noted. Although John and the detective inspector were friends now and had gotten to know each other fairly well, the two weren't prone to a lot of physical contact. Sure there was the usual handshake in greeting or farewell, or the odd pat on the back during a case but as far as Sherlock had observed, that was only sort of contact the two men shared.

At first Sherlock isn't too bothered by the action and merely sits back in the booth, silently observing the pair as the rest of the group carry on in conversation. It was when Lestrade laughed rather loudly at something John had said and pulled the doctor closer, resting their heads together as the two of them continued to laugh. This bothered Sherlock.

Sherlock frowned at this and made a point of telling them that what John had said was really not that funny and they shouldn't be making such a commotion. Lestrade had rolled his eyes at Sherlock while John just smiled at him and reached over to pat the knee of the consulting detective. He leaned closer, mumbling a playful "lighten up" to him before leaning back in his chair. Sherlock was silenced by the action, an unusual feeling forming in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock was even more stunned when John left his hand on his knee and gave it a small squeeze.

About an hour later Lestrade was becoming visibly more intoxicated and proceeded to get closer to John, more physical contact being made with the more drinks he consumed. First the inspector had moved the arm around John further down so that it circled around the doctor's lower back, his hand resting on John's hip. He'd also made a show of nuzzling the smaller man's neck when he'd laugh or placing his hand on John's thigh to get his attention.

John himself was now on his fifth beer and had already consumed two, maybe three shots of Sambuca, and was seemingly oblivious to the detective inspector's intentions. Sherlock managed to remain seated while he was forced to watch the display of unnecessary touching between the two, clenching his fists under the table. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take, watching the closeness between the two, even if John was unaware, was like a slap to the face.

He's slightly relieved when Molly and Mrs Hudson announce their departure, gathering up their coats and bags before exiting the pub. He wants to leave too but can't bear the thought of leaving Lestrade and John alone together, the inspector would more than likely take advantage of it if the way he's been acting tonight is anything to go off. He sighs and turns back to the two drunken men, his eyes hardening when he sees Lestrade's face is a lot closer to John's than it needs to be as he whispers something him.

"John, I think we should be leaving too. It's getting rather late." Sherlock says gruffly, interrupting the moment between the two.

He ignores Lestrade's protests and grabs John's upper arm, tugging the doctor up and out of the booth. John stumbles and erupts into a fit of giggles that Sherlock would have found cute if he hadn't been so pissed off. He places his hands on John's shoulders, steering him to the exit. He can hear Lestrade calling after them as they step outside and has to physically hold back the growl threatening to leave his lips. He silently thanks god as a hackney appears just a few feet away from them and guides John to the vehicle, helping him inside before giving the address to the driver.

Sherlock glances over the backseat and see Lestrade looking for them as they drive away. A small smile tugs at his lips as they round a corner and the detective inspector is out of sight. When he turns his head he notices a pair of blue eyes watching him. They're glazed over from the amount of alcohol he'd consumed and look tired, but there's a hint of amusement shining through them as he looks at Sherlock.

The taller man raises an eyebrow at his smaller friend, shifting in his seat. "What?"

"Oh my god," John slurs, resting his head against the seat and erupting into another fit of drunken giggles.

Sherlock frowns as he looks down at John. "What?" he asks again, his tone clipped.

John's laughter dies down and he smiles up at Sherlock, lifting a hand to poke the detective's chest. "You're jealous."

Something close to embarrassment courses through Sherlock, along with a bit of nervousness, and his eyebrows furrow more. "Jealous?" he sneers, looking away from him. "What could I possibly be jealous of?"

John laughs again, hunching over and Sherlock looks down as the smaller man's head comes to lean against his chest. He huffs, nudging John until his sits up straight and his laughter stops again.

"It's okay to be jealous, Sherlock." John says, his words still slurred. He moves closer, resting his head on the taller man's shoulder.

"I don't know what you're talking about, John." And it would have been believable, if it wasn't John he was talking to.

John just smiles. "Yes you do."

They reach Baker Street and Sherlock throws a ten pound note at the driver before climbing out. He walks around the car, hiding his amused as smile John all but stumbles out of the cab.

He hooks an arm around John's waist and helps the doctor walk the few feet across the pavement to their front door. His stomach tightens as a shiver runs through John's body and the smaller man curls into him, shielding himself from the bitter night air and seeking out the warmth Sherlock's body has to give. The detective smiles to himself as he finally fishes his keys out of his pocket and unlocks the door, guiding them both inside.

By the time he manages to get John up the few flights of stairs its bordering one o'clock and he can feel the tiredness taking over John's body as he slumps against the taller man.

"I can't see you making it up another flight of stairs so I oppose you take my bed for the night." Sherlock says as he guides John to his bedroom.

"M'kay." John replies through a yawn, letting himself be ushered into the room, the familiar smell of Sherlock's aftershave hitting his nose.

He makes a move to get into bed but Sherlock quickly catches his elbow and stops him, smirking at the annoyed huff John gives. He tugs John's coat off and drapes it over the end of his bed before pushing the smaller man onto the bed and tugging his shoes and socks off. It's a struggle, but he manages to manoeuvre John under the covers, tucking him in and slipping the man's watch off, leaving it on the bedside table.

He stands straight and turns to leave when a hand circles his wrist and tugs lightly. He looks back with a raised eyebrow to see John looking up through tired eyes.

"Where are you going?"

Sherlock turns his body to face John. "To the living room, I'll sleep on the couch."

John manages to roll his eyes and tugs hard on Sherlock's arm. "Don't be daft, get in." he slurs with a fond smile.

"John, I don't think-"

"Sherlock Holmes, shut up and get in bed with me." John says as serious as he can in his drunken haze.

Sherlock smirks, amused at the choice of words before moving to the other side of the bed. He slips his coat off and lays it with John's before taking his shoes and socks off. He changes into a pair of blue pyjama bottoms, not bothering with putting a top on and slides into bed beside John. He leaves a reasonable amount of space between them which is quickly filled when John shuffles over to him, nuzzling his face into the detective's shoulder and draping his arm over him.

Sherlock tries to keep his breathing even as he feels John settle against him. "Is this necessary?" he asks, trying to sound annoyed.

John only curled into him more, letting his eyes fall shut. "What do you think?"

The question stuns Sherlock, holding his breath for a second as the realisation of John's words sets in. John knows.

John knows.

Sherlock swallows roughly, realising that John's statement earlier that night of "you're jealous" wasn't just a joke due to his drunkenness.

John knew.

How could John know? He'd never given him any indication of his feelings towards him. Had he? No, Sherlock was sure he hadn't. But John knew. Or maybe John didn't know, maybe this was just the drink talking. Maybe tomorrow they would wake up and John wouldn't remember a thing. But if John did remember, what would he do?

John opened his eyes after a few minutes silence, looking up to the detective. He could practically hear the gears turning in his head as he processed what he had said.

"Sherlock," he mumbled. "Stop thinking."

Sherlock blinked, glancing at John. He opened his mouth, about to speak when John clumsily placed a finger to his lips.

"You might be the most intelligent person I know, and you might know just about everything about everyone. I don't know everything about everyone, but I know you."

And that was all that needed to be said before John leaned in to press a small kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

"Tomorrow." He promised before settling back against the taller man's chest, letting his eyes fall shut again.

Sherlock, still astounded, managed a small nod, curling his arm around John's back to pull him closer. He let a small smile grace his lips, turning his head to press a kiss to John's temple. He listened to the sound of John's breathing evening out, signalling he'd fallen asleep.

He wasn't sure what would happen the next morning when the two of them woke up, but what he was sure about at that moment was that John Hamish Watson, the soldier, the doctor, the blogger, the best friend a man could possibly ask for, was his.

And that was all Sherlock needed to be sure of.