Sherlock groaned. "But Jooohn –"

"No, Sherlock. Just… no. This year you are GOING."

When the MET Christmas party had been cancelled due to inclement weather, Sherlock had assumed his promise to attend had met with a similarly satisfactory fate. Cancelled Christmas Party turned out to be Rescheduled Holiday Party, which was clearly an entirely separate event. Yet despite days of protests, largely in the form of increasingly caustic-smelling experiments on the kitchen table, John was insisting that the original RSVP stand.

"I don't see why this year should be different than any other. My not going is expected. It's… tradition." Watching his flatmate pause to consider, a smug smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Finally, an argument that appealed to John's logic (if it could be called that). He loved the holidays, and he loved holiday traditions even more. Surely this would –

"Nope. No. You're going." And with a satisfied nod, John grabbed his coat and started down the stairs. Just as Sherlock was opening his mouth to make a vague threat about how he intended to behave if forced to attend, John's voice echoed up the stairwell. "And you will be nice." The front door slammed shut before the petulant consulting detective could get in another word.

Damn. Damn damn damn. Crossing to the window, he watched John walk toward the Tesco, slight victorious bounce in his step. So what if John said he had to go. He had a diseased pancreas in the refrigerator, ten soil samples to subject to a range of acidic compounds, and to top it all off, it was cold. He would stay home tomorrow night. He would do what he liked.

Except he knew he wouldn't. Why did John have this power over him? Why did he always do as John asked? (Commanded? instructed, more like.) This loss of freedom was getting a bit out of hand and required investigation if he hoped to regain the controlling share of his own life. Or at least avoid the NSY holiday party, with Lestrade's potent, sugary punch, the hideous jumper contest, and Anderson's… Anderson. Nose wrinkling in disgust at that last thought, Sherlock pulled his dressing gown close against his less-lean-than-in-November frame ("too many Christmas sweets, damn that Mrs. Hudson"), threw himself carelessly onto the sofa, and retreated into his Mind Palace to the John H. Watson, MD suite.

As he progressed through the space reserved for his army doctor (his army doctor? Hm. File that away for later consideration), Sherlock idly fingered the objects on the shelves while analyzing the problem at hand. John was Sherlock's friend. His best friend. He cared for John. Obvious. Therefore, he wanted his friend to be happy. Although that was rather significant, as concern for most people's happiness fell into the category of sentimentality – boring – that didn't explain the need Sherlock felt to agree, to please him as often as possible, to exchange his own comfort and desires for that of his flatmate.

Desires. Sherlock sunk down into John's chair, in its place of honor at the center of the Watson Wing (when had it become it's own wing?) before a crackling fire. Something about the word desire struck a chord, but as he inhaled the scent of his closest friend, he grew drowsy and there, alone but surrounded by reminders of his John (his John?) the detective drifted off to sleep.

"Sherlock." The sound came from a distance, muffled as if he was underwater.

"Sherlock. SHERLOCK." Grey-green eyes snapped open. The apartment was dark except for the light from the kitchen. Long, tense limbs stretched the length of the sofa as he took in his surroundings. Street lamps. Take out, Thai, on the kitchen table. Still hot tea next to him on the floor. John was home. John. Sherlock could feel something just out of reach at the edge of his mind, but was interrupted by the sight of his friend smiling as he entered from upstairs.

John Watson. In thin pajama pants, an army green cotton t-shirt, and his striped dressing gown. As John moved into the room saying something about watching a movie, his words were less interesting than the tight pull of his shirt across his strong pectoral muscles. Though he had put on some weight since leaving the army, the truth was that he hid quite a body beneath those awful jumpers. The flex of his chest, the strength of his biceps, the… oh.

Oh. Oh oh oh.

As John settled in on the sofa, pulling a blanket down onto both of their laps, it was all Sherlock could do to keep from visibly tensing. It was only transport, he thought, he could control this. He would have to, and quickly. For all his lack of social aptitude, Sherlock was certain that being caught with an erection caused by your "not gay" best friend who was eating popcorn a few inches away fell squarely into the category of A Bit Not Good.