Disclaimer: If we owned, there would be more shagging.

It was a dark and stormy night, and John was pissed. He was beginning to realize that boredom was one of the most dangerous things he had ever faced, especially when the one bored was a certain consulting detective. A consulting detective that could always find the gun and bullets. At least the wall hadn't been shot. Yet. But John was sick of the mini-explosions, and the flashbacks they produced; John Watson, ex-army doctor, blogger, and substitute skull was pissed off. And drunk. One or the other would have been easily dealt with but both simultaneously was bringing emotions to the surface that John would prefer stay buried. Alarm bells should have been going off in Sherlock's head but the sociopath was conveniently lacking a sense of self-preservation.

Cold eyes followed John's jerky movements as the veteran attempted to make tea. Sherlock really shouldn't have laughed when John dropped the cup of tea. John froze and Sherlock watched as fury settled as a steel bar across his shoulders.

Two steps brought him in front of the World's only consulting detective. "Shut up," he snarled. The taller man just looked up at him from where he sat on the couch, blinking slowly, sly smirk just barely touching his lips. With alcohol inhibiting his judgment – oh let's be honest, he adored danger – John did something stupid: he kissed Sherlock Holmes.

Now John was the one laughing at the gob-smacked expression on his flatmate's face. John nodded once, satisfied that he had shut the brilliant idiot up for once, then turned and walked away. He heard a deep inhale from behind him and the sounds of someone getting to their feet.

"What the hell was that?" Sherlock asked, following John. He received no immediate reply.

John continued to walk up the stairs to his room, weaving a bit, smirk firmly in place at the frustrated growl from the manic-depressive three-year-old behind him.

The smirk turned into surprise as, right as John opened his bedroom door, Sherlock pounced. Literally.

Down both men went and after a bit of wrestling, Sherlock sat calmly on John's chest.

"What the hell was that?" he repeated. John wriggled beneath him, trying to free himself. The taller man weighed more than he thought.

"Get off," he demanded, trying to forcibly shove him off. This resulted in Sherlock pinning his hands above his head to the ground.

"Tell me what I want to hear and I will."

"How the hell should I know what you want to hear?"

Sherlock sighed, eyes intent. "What. Was. That."

John swallowed, eyes wide, understanding that here, now, with him more than half drunk, their relationship had entered a crucible.

He could either shrug it off as nothing, drunkenness, or – John looked into storm-colored eyes and swallowed again, tugging at the hands restraining him.

"What do you want to hear?" The soldier's voice was soft.

"I want you to explain yourself."

"Couldn't you figure it out on your own? I thought you were the World's only consulting detective for a reason," John goaded, momentarily forgetting that challenging Sherlock didn't normally end well for him.

"I need you to say the words." Even in his drunken state, John noticed the word choice. Sherlock had gone from "want" to "need".

"You need me to explain why I kissed you? You need me to explain how much I need you?" John wasn't sure where the words had come from, but now they were pouring from his mouth. "I need you, Sherlock, I need to feel your skin under my hands, I need to hear you whisper my name. I need to see you smile. I need you to be brilliant and frustrating and manic and dangerous. I need you."

John couldn't meet his eyes any longer, turning his head and once more attempting to free his arms. Sherlock's hands tightened around his wrists.

"Look at me." Sherlock stared into the (drunk) startled eyes of his companion (friend, crush). "I need you to be here," the tall man whispered. "I need you to want me."

"I'm here," John whispered back. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Thank you." He watched as John's eyes flicked down his torso then back up to his face. Sherlock smirked.

"You're drunk."

"So?"

"So I'm not going to take advantage of you. At the moment."

"Then let go."

Sherlock leaned forward until his face was inches from John's. "Make me."

Playful smirks on each of their faces, the two men proceeded to wrestle each other for control. Drunk as he was, John was still a soldier, managing to twist Sherlock into a headlock.

"I win."

"This time," Sherlock murmured.

John shook his head, releasing his flatmate (boyfriend?). He sat down on his bed, looking at the tall man still sprawled out on his floor. The doctor couldn't deny he found his flatmate physically attractive, especially seeing that yet another button had come undone. But it was more than that.

"Why me?"

Sherlock hummed, "Why not you?"

John shook his head, grinning. "I'm normal, I'm nothing special."

"I beg to differ. Two days after you met me, you followed me to a crime scene, refused my brother, and shot a man to save my life. I am not a good person, I'm a sociopath, but you complete me, ground me." John was beet-red. "When you called me an idiot, I knew. In two days, you saw what was really beneath the mind." John bowed his head.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"Trusting me like this." John's eyes were sad, and that sadness was for Sherlock, for the life that he had led.

Emotion flickered so fast in Sherlock's eyes that John couldn't catch what it was. "Just…" he hesitated, mouth twisting in uncertainty. "Just don't let me down."

John, drunk though he was, heard what Sherlock didn't say: "Just don't let me down like everyone else has." His heart broke a little, looking at the face of the man who was so precious and so much like a child. It hurt to see him hurt, to remember past hurt.

"I swear to you, I never will."

Sherlock closed his eyes, letting those words cover him like a security blanket, hearing John kneel behind him, arms wrapping around the sociopath, quietly holding the man-child.

After a moment, Sherlock opened his eyes. "We should go to bed."

"You're actually going to sleep?"

"There's nothing better to do until you get sober again." John shivered, standing, at the promise of what could come after. He lay down on the bed as Sherlock perched on a chair. John was suddenly exhausted. His eyes fluttered, fighting to stay open.

"Sleep," Sherlock ordered gently from his seat.

"Are you my mother now?" John questioned sleepily as he lost the battle against his heavy eyelids. Already asleep, he missed the evil glare Sherlock shot him. Realizing his flatmate (other half) was asleep, it was soon replaced with a gentle smile.

"Good night, John," he said softly before silently exiting the room.

When John woke up, it was light outside, his head hurt, and his flatmate (other half) was intently staring at him.

"Good morning."

Sherlock nodded, eyes cataloguing before he said, "You're hung-over."

John nodded, sitting up slowly, expecting Sherlock to move back. It didn't happen. John stopped a few inches away.

"Sherlock."

His friend (soon to be lover) leaned in, stopping just before their noses touched. He stayed that way, teasing both of them.

Just when John was about to kiss the irritating thing (love of his life), Sherlock stood up. "You need tea, possibly food."

John let out a frustrated growl, but understood. If Sherlock wouldn't take advantage of him when he was drunk, he would wait until John was fully sober before… taking advantage.

The two made their way downstairs to the kitchen where Sherlock lounged on the sofa, cat-like, while John drank a cup of tea.

The heat of the stare between them intensified with every moment, until John stood up to wash out his mug. As soon as the mug was set down safely, two hands pinned him to the sink. The doctor turned to his flatmate.

"Upstairs. Now," Sherlock growled, like the sociopathic-cat-thing was.

"Oh, god yes."