The 21st century wasn't a place for making wishes, especially not if you were a member of the Holmes family, where logic and reason ruled over romantic depictions of reality. As the youngest of the clan, Sherlock had learned at an early age that the sun didn't always smile down on you, especially if you had decided not to smile up at it either. Sometimes, you simply had to make do with what was available, a philosophy that Sherlock had perfected over the years and the reason why he now took his skull from its accustomed spot on the left corner of the mantelpiece and threw himself on the sofa rather than preying to a deity or hoping for better days.

It had started out as a makeshift solution when he was alone. He'd take the skull and talk to it for a bit, ramble about his day, tell it his thoughts or simply look at it for a while. And although the skull would just look back at him in patient silence it often provided him with inspiration, an effect that Sherlock appreciated more than he'd ever admit.

Over the years it had become a habit. When he was stuck, bored or needed to get something off his chest he'd take the skull and tell it whatever it was that occupied his mind, a practice he didn't even change when John moved in. The skull was always there, reliable, and, most importantly, it could keep silent, advantages not even John could provide.

Today, Sherlock had decided to go through the notes of an old case he'd not managed to solve for some time now, a journalist gone completely crazy, found with a matchbox in front of him that contained a mysterious worm. While very interesting, the case also appeared unsolvable, a reason for Sherlock to look into it again and again and now turn to his skull for help.

Sherlock was just about to tell it the facts about the mad journalist when footsteps on the staircase made him prick his ears in interest. As much as he liked looking at old cases every now and then, a new case would be definitely more interesting and exciting.

When a second later Mrs Hudson entered, loaded with plastic bags full of groceries, talking about the "nasty weather outside", Sherlock's interest waned instantly. While she dumped everything on the kitchen table, talking about the rain, he lifted the skull to his face and stared into its empty eye sockets. John's eyes were blue but the skull's were... not there, just yellowish bone and dark shadows. Slightly cocking his head, he looked at the nasal cavity and mentally compared the greyish hole with John's slightly too short and knobbly nose before he got his thoughts under control. It's unfair to compare them, he reminded himself and began to softly stroke the temporal bone with his thumb when the skull was suddenly snatched out of his fingers.

"You're spending too much time with this ghastly thing, Sherlock." Mrs Hudson declared, the skull now firmly gripped in her hand.

Sherlock frowned. "Why? Give it back." he held out his hand.

"No, I won't." Mrs Hudson shook her head. "You're wasting your time, dear."

She turned around, walked over to the door and started to descend the stairs.

Sherlock was after her like a bat out of hell, first ordering, then asking, finally pleading with her to give the skull back. There also was some shouting on his part, but Mrs Hudson did not relent.

"It's for your own good, Sherlock." she said as she opened her door, Sherlock hovering mere inches from her, his jaw set. "Now go back upstairs and store the groceries away, John's been at work all day, you really can't expect him to do that too."

"I'm not his housekeeper!" Sherlock cried, but she had already disappeared into her flat and closed the door.

Still fuming he stormed back upstairs and kicked a cushion in silent rage but when his gaze fell on the empty spot on the mantlepiece his anger turned into gloom. The skull was one of the few personal items that Sherlock felt attached to and he liked spending time with it, he wanted it back.

Ruffling his hair, he let himself sink down on the sofa and stared at the lounge table where the case file still lay.

He'd try again in the evening, maybe she would have softened by then.

John returned from work two hours later. Sherlock had not moved from the couch, the defeat still weighing heavily on him, but he now had an open medical journal on his lap and occasionally flipped the pages.

"Evening." John greeted as he entered the flat, looking slightly wet and tired.

"Hello." Sherlock replied tonelessly without turning his head.

John stepped closer as he shrugged out of his rain-soaked jacket. "Why so glum?"

"Mrs Hudson took my skull."

"Again?" John asked and Sherlock gave him a dark look before he continued.

"Yes, only last time she gave it back when I reminded her that she had no right to take my property. This time she simply said "You're wasting your time, dear." What on earth is that supposed to mean?"

John shrugged. "Don't know."

"Thought so." Sherlock said and turned a page.

"I could try and talk to her." John offered after a moment of silence.

Sherlock looked at him indignantly. "Why would she listen to you if she doesn't listen to me?"

John put his hands into his pockets and gave another shrug. "I don't know, maybe you have the wrong approach?"

Sherlock huffed. As if. "Very well, try your luck, it's not as if you could do any more damage."

He turned his attention back to his magazine, expecting John to leave now but for some strange reason John didn't move from his side, he just lurked there like a vulture, a dark shadow on the border of his vision.

Eventually, Sherlock gave him an irritated look.

"Anything else?"

"What's in for me if I fetch it back?" John asked, cocking his head.

"Sorry?" Sherlock let the magazine sink and raised his eyebrows.

John crossed his arms in front of his chest and took a deep breath. "I said: What do I get from you if I fetch back your skull?"

Sherlock frowned. "I didn't think you'd want some sort of payment."

"Why not? I scratch your back and you scratch mine. It's only logical, isn't it."

Sherlock couldn't really argue with that. It was logical, but John considered himself his friend and friends usually didn't offer help and then demand something in return, did they?

Whatever.

"Fair enough, what do you want?" he drawled and stretched out on the couch, kneading the cushions with his naked toes. "You can't have the violin or my scrapbooks and I won't give you my coat either. You can have the TV if you want but if you prefer a cheque I'll see what-"

"I want a date." John interrupted.

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. He froze in his ramblings and turned at John wide-eyed.

"A date?"

John had walked over to the fireplace and put his hands on the backrest of his armchair, lightly stroking the tartan plaid that lay there. "Yes. I want one." He looked up. "With you. I want dinner. And a kiss."

For a moment Sherlock was speechless. Was John being serious? Sherlock studied him more attentively than before but there was no trace that indicated he was jesting. He couldn't possibly have noticed - no, impossible, John didn't notice these kind of things. Had Mycroft perhaps set him up to this? Whatever the reason, the whole idea was totally ridiculous.

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and wrapped his bathrobe tighter around him. "I told you, I'm not interested. Ask for something else."

John shook his head. "I don't want something else. I want us to go out and eat and afterwards I want us to go home and share a kiss."

Sherlock turned his face against the ceiling. "I disagree."

"Then you won't get your skull back."

John sounded almost smug and Sherlock scowled. He wanted his skull back. He needed the skull, it was perfect to bounce off ideas. With John working at the surgery he wasn't there all the time to talk to, and Mrs Hudson, nice old lady that she was, was no adequate replacement either. They also had a history together that went back years and during that time Sherlock had shared many a thought with him so in a way they were friends, he couldn't just let him down.

"Well?" John asked, ripping him out of his thoughts.

"Fine." Sherlock said, lying blatantly through his teeth. He had absolutely no intention to have dinner and a kiss with John but John didn't need to know that now, did he? The whole idea was so crazy anyway that John couldn't possibly expect a serious reply. He would tell John that nothing would come of it as soon as he had his skull back, if John managed that at all.

"You agree?" John asked incredulously.

Sherlock flipped himself over so that he faced the wall. "Dinner and a kiss, nothing more." he grumbled against the back of the sofa.

"Promise." John's voice pushed on.

"Good god, John, how old are you? Eight?" Sherlock nattered over his shoulder, but John didn't reply, he just stood there quietly and waited.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, very well. I promise. There, happy now?" he snapped.

As soon as the promise had left his mouth, he could hear how John walked over to the door.

"I'll go fetch your skull."

Sherlock heard talking and the occasional laughter coming from downstairs shortly after John had left. Sherlock didn't know how John did it, because although Sherlock had known Mrs Hudson for a lot longer than John it was John who had usually more luck when it came to talking to her. And indeed, when John entered the living room ten minutes later, after exchanging loud and cheerful goodbyes with Mrs Hudson, he had Sherlock's boney friend in his hands.

"Here you are." John walked over to the sofa and held out the skull with a smile. "One skull, delivered promptly to one Mr Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock reluctantly stretched out his arm and took it out of John's hands. As soon as he had the familiar, smooth yellowish bone in his grasp, he felt a spark of joy flare up inside his chest.

"Thank you." Sherlock studied the skull briefly for damages before he placed it in his lap and looked at it contentedly.

"Well?" John asked after a minute or two and Sherlock looked up with a frown.

"Well what?"

"What about the date?"

Sherlock noticed that John was grinning but the beeping of his mobile distracted him.

"Oh, I didn't think you were being serious." he murmured absent-mindedly as he read the text.

"I was being serious." John replied, his voice subdued, but Sherlock only listened with one ear.

DOUBLE-SUICIDE IN SOHO, POSSIBLY MURDER. PLEASE COME. GL

A smile spread on Sherlock's face. He jumped up from the sofa and hastily shrugged out of his bathrobe. "Sorry, John, but I really don't have time for this at the moment."

"But-" John began but Sherlock had already dashed out of the living room into his room where he struggled into a pair of socks, mobile clenched between his teeth. Double suicides hardly ever were suicides, in most cases a third party was involved. Maybe a contract killer? In Soho you also had to take in a whole bunch of other things - pimp wars, Chinese mafia... Oh, it would be so exciting!

Hastily, he changed into his suit and pocketed his mobile before he headed for the kitchen where he had left his coat slung over the backrest of a chair.

"Double-suicide in Soho, John, possibly murder!" Sherlock exclaimed as he quickly put on his coat and moved back into the living room where John was standing exactly where Sherlock had left him.

Sherlock grabbed the skull from the sofa and, after giving it a considerate look, put it in his coat pocket before he stormed out of the door, hardly noticing that John was following him.

"Sherlock, wait."

But Sherlock didn't wait, he dashed down the staircase, taking two steps in one stride. "No time to talk now, John, I'll call you if I need you."

"SHERLOCK!" John called after him but the door had already fallen shut after Sherlock.

It had been murder, double murder, in fact, and Sherlock had returned home so late that John had already gone to bed. They also didn't encounter each other the next morning because by the time Sherlock finally got up, John had already had left for work.

Sherlock sat in the kitchen for a while and studied John's empty mug in the sink.

Yesterday, absorbed in the case, he'd completely forgotten the promise he'd given John, but once he'd woken up this morning it had all come back. Dinner and a kiss. He'd promised John, although he hadn't meant it. Now he almost felt something like - remorse?

He'd never had a real date so it could have been nice, going out with John. Maybe they could have eaten at a cosy little restaurant with round tables and soft music in the background and told each other about their day, Sherlock about the case and John about his patients at the surgery. Maybe they would have had wine and laughed a lot and once they'd finished their meal Sherlock would have felt warm all over and a bit silly. Afterwards, they could have ambled through evening London for a bit, joined the bustle in the street, watched buskers and and gone down to the embankment. There, they could have sat on a bench in the evening sun and looked at the Thames while the ships passed by. Sherlock could have made a joke and they'd have both laughed and then they would have looked at each other, deeply, and John would have leaned forward, so close that Sherlock could have felt his warm breath on his face and had his smell in his nose. They both would have closed their eyes and tilted their heads and then their soft, warm lips would have touched, first tentatively, but then more firmly. Their arms would have wandered around each other and Sherlock would have felt a bit light-headed but nevertheless opened his mouth and John's tongue would have flicked against his own and then...

Sherlock dragged himself away from the sink. He was wasting his time. It was all just a joke and nothing would come of it, anyway so there was no need to think about it any further. After another brief glance at the mug he left the room and got himself dressed.

"How's mummy?"

"Why don't you go and ask her yourself?" Mycroft retorted with an air of acidity. He'd turned up late in the afternoon with some bank papers that needed Sherlock's signature. Now he was sitting at the coffee table, a cup of tea in his hand, and flipped through the papers that Sherlock had signed carelessly ten minutes earlier.

"You know why." Sherlock snapped back, already having enough of that meeting, his thoughts still occupied with the promise.

"Yes, I do." Mycroft gloated and turned another page.

Sherlock bit his lip and gave him a scathing look but didn't reply. He turned his back and pulled his mobile out of his pocket to check the time.

Almost six, John would be home soon. Sherlock started pacing the room, flipping through the menu of his mobile.

John hadn't sent a text today, hadn't called either. That wasn't unusual as such, John took his work at the surgery a bit more seriously now because Sarah had rebuked him for leaving during office hours to go to a crime scene with Sherlock. Still, Sherlock knew that John wouldn't just drop the whole thing with the skull and the date. He had fully expected John to send him an array of texts containing silly jokes like YOUR PLACE OR MINE TONIGHT? but since they had failed to arrive, he now suspected that John would confront him about the date when he came home, and for some reason that idea made Sherlock slightly nervous.

When finally the sound of the front door could be heard, Sherlock sneaked over to the living room door and peered into the hallway. John's footsteps became audible on the wooden staircase a moment later and Sherlock could feel his blood pressure rising noticeably. All of a sudden it was very warm in the room and his palms were beginning to feel sweaty. He swallowed, feeling slightly faint.

Then the rhythmic thudding of the steps was interrupted and Sherlock could see a mass of dirty blonde hair appear on the stair head. Before he knew what he was doing, Sherlock had taken a step forward, closed the door with a firm push and turned the key.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" Mycroft asked, looking up from the papers with a frown, the steps now back to their ascending rhythm and quickly drawing nearer.

Sherlock jerked round. "What?" He looked at the door again and casually waved his hand. "Oh, nothing, I just-"

The door handle rattled and Sherlock involuntarily took a step backwards. Then keys jingled and there was poking at the keyhole. Sherlock loosened his collar, grateful that these old locks couldn't be opened both ways as long as there was a key still in them.

John seemed to have realized that, too, because a second later there was a knock on the door and John's muffled voice could be heard from outside. "Sherlock? It's me, John. Could you please open up?"

Sherlock ran his hand through his hair and put some more distance between himself and the door.

John would want his date now and Sherlock somehow liked the idea of a date with John but somehow he also didn't. While he was confident that he could handle the dinner part easily, after that, John would want a kiss and although Sherlock had imagined kissing John many times, now that it came to it, he was terrified.

"Sherlock, what is going on?" Mycroft asked and Sherlock's head snapped round. "You look as if Satan incarnate has come to get you." Mycroft frowned, studying his brother attentively.

"It's John." Sherlock said with a nod at the door as if that explained everything.

Mycroft gave him a pointed look. "Obviously, but why don't you let him in? I gathered he lived here, too?"

"I know, it's just-" Sherlock began but then the handle rattled again and the words died in his throat.

Mycroft put down his pen and rose from his chair, the papers forgotten. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at Mycroft desperately. "Yesterday, I - promised him something," Sherlock mumbled quickly.

"Explain." Mycroft demanded with a look at the door.

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull again and John fetched it for me so..."

"So?"

Sherlock bit his lip. Mycroft would laugh if he told him. Mycroft would find the whole thing hilarious. He'd laugh, laugh that Sherlock had made such a promise in the first place and was now too much of a coward to do something as mundane as eat dinner with John and and give him a kiss. God, he hated him.

"Oh, mind your own business!" Sherlock eventually snapped and turned away.

"Sherlock - " Mycroft's voice had taken on a tone that Sherlock only knew to well, one that told him that Mycroft had tasted blood and wouldn't stop snooping now until he knew what was going on. Silently cursing him, Sherlock decided it was best to get it over with quickly.

"I promised him a date." he muttered.

Silence followed.

There was another knock on the door and John's voice piped up again. "Sherlock? Would you please open the door?"

"I thought that he wasn't serious, that I'd made it clear that I wasn't interested but he wouldn't hear any of it, he even made me promise." Sherlock rambled on, now pacing the carpet and gesturing wildly.

"I see." was all that Mycroft said, his face blank.

"And now he's here and I expect he now wants to go out with me and have dinner and a kiss." Sherlock almost spat while Mycroft watched his agitated brother curiously.

"Well, Sherlock, if you promised John a date then of course you have to keep that promise." Mycroft eventually said. "There's nothing worse than a man who cannot keep his word. And surely John's help is worth something as trivial as a shared meal and a kiss? Let him in."

"No." Sherlock shook his head.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "You will open that door now, Sherlock, or I will open it." he stated with a stern face.

Under normal circumstances Sherlock would have taken that as a challenge to pick a quarrel but at this moment he felt too out of his depth to take it up with John and Mycroft.

Muttering a few curses under his breath Sherlock walked to the door and opened it only to retreat quickly to his place by the window.

John entered the room, a puzzled expression on his face. "What's going on, why did you lock the door?"

"Hello, John." Mycroft greeted him with a smile from his place at the coffee table.

"Oh. Hello. I didn't know that you were here." John said as Mycroft began to collect the papers and put them into a black briefcase. John watched him with a frown before he looked at Sherlock. "Sorry, did I interrupt you at something?"

"Not at all, a mere trifle and we're already finished." Mycroft replied and picked up his coat and umbrella as he headed towards the door.

"Are you leaving?" Sherlock blurted out and Mycroft briefly paused on the threshold.

"Yes, I am. I will send you a copy of the papers as soon as I have arranged everything with the bank. Goodbye, John. Sherlock." Mycroft gave them a nod and turned towards the staircase. "And remember what I said, Sherlock, a promise is a promise." he called as he walked down the stairs.

John shot Sherlock a curious look. A light blush spread on Sherlock's cheeks and he quickly turned around and looked out of the window.

When the door downstairs had closed audibly, John cleared his throat.

"Have you eaten yet?"

"Right, I take it you want your dinner now." Sherlock mumbled.

"Well, you promised me a date." John smiled. "I thought we could go to Angelo's."

Sherlock just shrugged. "Whatever you want, let's get it over with."

He fetched his coat and together they left the flat and took a cab.

They didn't talk much during the drive.

Sherlock mostly stared outside, thinking intently.

He still didn't get why John was doing this. They were friends, weren't they, John was what people ordinarily called his best mate, so why that date? It didn't make any sense so Sherlock still suspected that it was all a joke.

Or maybe a test? John had only dated women so far, maybe he wanted to try if he liked men, too, and Sherlock was convenient. Or maybe John was bored and had decided to try something new, someone new? The thing with Sarah had been off for a while now...

Each idea his brain came up with was more insulting than the one before and Sherlock frowned angrily. He was nobody's butt of a joke, guinea pig or whore. Whatever John was up to, he, Sherlock, wouldn't play along. He'd have dinner with him and give him a kiss but that was that, nothing more and then they'd see who'd have the last laugh.

Sherlock turned his head and looked at John, who was staring out of the window, occasionally rubbing his hands on his trouser legs.

What if John was being serious?

A second later he'd dismissed the thought.

People didn't ask him out on dates, people didn't want to be together with him in that way unless something was in for them, why should John be any different?

And even if John was being serious, he, Sherlock, would have no time for a relationship anyway. His website and the Yard provided him with enough work that he was busy most days and nights and in his spare time he still wanted to conduct his studies. Clearly no time for a partner.

No, whatever John's intentions were, it would be better for both of them if they just got this silly agreement over and done with as fast as possible and then forget that it had ever happened.

At Angelo's, they got their accustomed table by the window. Angelo brought them a candle again and this time John didn't protest when it was put in front of him or when Angelo gave him the thumbs up, on the contrary, he gave Angelo a small grin that made Sherlock sigh inwardly.

"So, how was your day?" John inquired while they studied the menu, or, in Sherlock's case, pretended to. He already knew that he'd take the penne all'arrabbiata and John the lasagne, as they usually did, but at least that way he didn't have to look John in the face.

"As usual." he replied monosyllabically and thumbed through to the wine list.

"You mean you lay on the sofa and talked to your skull?" John teased.

Sherlock put down the menu.

"John, I can't remember that you demanded that I talk to you during the dinner so if you wanted small talk you should have made it a condition before you fetched the skull."

It came out a lot more snappish than Sherlock had intended. John's face fell and he stared at Sherlock for a moment, then blinked and quickly looked down at the menu again.

"I was just trying to - never mind." John muttered in a low voice, his head bowed. He seemed to have shrunk in his chair, his tension but also his smile and previous light heartedness gone, and seeing him so dejected made Sherlock feel slightly sick at the stomach. Despite his resolve to boycott John's date he'd not meant to be mean to him, they were still friends. Maybe he should apologize?

Then he remembered that he'd been basically blackmailed into this and still didn't know what John was playing at. Sherlock shifted in his chair and clamped his mouth shut, feeling his old anger flare up again. No, if someone should apologize it was John, but John didn't make another attempt at conversation.

When Angelo finally brought their dishes they ate their dinner in silence, John staring intently at his plate, forehead deep in wrinkles, Sherlock listlessly picking at his food and silently fuming, not only because he felt cheated but also because he felt remorse whenever he saw John's crestfallen face.

It had gone dark by the time they drove back and the silence between them was smothering.

Sherlock's anger had made way to frustration. He didn't know how to proceed now. John confused him and he confused himself and he couldn't think straight about the whole thing. If they were on a case he'd now ask John about his opinion but for obvious reasons that was out of question.

Watching the other cars pass by, Sherlock wondered what would have happened had he point-blank declined to come, maybe that would have been the better solution. He also wondered how the evening would have been like if he'd cooperated, if he'd pretended it was real and tried to enjoy it.

In need of a distraction he took out his mobile and checked his messages, only to find a text from Mycroft.

A PROMISE IS A PROMISE, SHERLOCK.

Sherlock slipped the mobile back into his pocket and looked outside into the dark again.

Back in Baker Street, Sherlock waited silently in the background while John paid the cab and opened the door to 221b. The house was dark when they walked up the stairs, their steps hollow on the old staircase.

John didn't go to his bedroom but led them straight into the living room and switched on the lights,

Sherlock reluctantly following, hands hidden deep inside his coat pockets. He would have preferred to go to his room and simply forget the whole evening but he knew that wasn't John's way of dealing with problems and if they didn't talk about it now things would be awkward for days.

As he took off his coat, Sherlock could feel his nervousness return fully-fledged. He very much doubted that John would demand a kiss after an evening like that but with John he never knew and the idea of a kiss stirred up these crazy feelings of fear and desire again that he'd basically fought all day. Forcing himself to stay calm despite his accelerating heartbeat, he hung his coat over the back of the old chair beside the lounge table and took a hesitant step into the room.

John had walked over to his armchair by the fireplace and flung his jacket into it. He was now staring intently at the skull that was back on its old place on the mantelpiece. Sherlock watched how John briefly took the skull in his hand only to replace it a moment later.

"You still owe me a kiss." John suddenly said without turning round.

Sherlock stared at John's back for a moment. Mycroft's words were still loud in his ears, and although he usually didn't do commitments he now felt the need to comply.

"Yes." he replied in a low voice and John turned around, looking surprised.

"Are you sure?"

Although he felt a bit queasy, Sherlock forced himself to reply. "I agreed to your terms."

John studied him for a moment, then looked back at the skull, his face unreadable. Eventually, he slowly walked over until he was standing right in front of Sherlock, facing him fully for the first time since the beginning of their date.

Sherlock swallowed. It's just John, he told himself, the man you've known and lived with for weeks and months. And yet, he couldn't help but feel slightly weak at the knees when he realized that John's eyes were studying his face, looking at his mouth with widened pupils.

After a moment of hesitation, John stepped even closer and Sherlock froze to the spot like a deer in the headlights. John's smell crawled up his nose, a warm, earthy flavour mingled with the sharp smell of disinfectant and heat seemed to radiate from the other man and push against his skin. Sherlock felt trapped inside a cloud of warmth and John and his breathing quickened.

Then John slowly leaned in and tilted his head, eyes half closed and lips slightly parted. Sherlock knew that this was his last chance to turn away and leave but he couldn't do it, he just stood there, frozen to the spot, his own mouth a bit open, awaiting the things that would come, his heartbeat hammering away inside his chest.

When John's lips finally touched his own with soft pressure and John's warm breath stroked his face, something inside of Sherlock snapped. Before he knew what he was doing, he gave a strong shove with his arms and John stumbled backwards, away from him, and bumped against the wall with a soft thud.

For a moment they both froze in their positions and stared at each other, wide eyed and breathing hard.

Then Sherlock looked into John's friendly blue eyes and it was as if he saw John for the first time in his life.

They were in each others arms a second later, frantically pressing their bodies against each other as close as they could, hands clutching hair and clothing, palms running up and down backs and chests, touching everything they could while their lips met again and again in short, hot kisses.

John pulled his mouth away and framed Sherlock's face with his hands. "I just wanted you. Nothing else." he whispered between gasps, leaning his forehead against Sherlock's, their noses touching.

"I know, I'm an idiot." Sherlock muttered and pressed his lips against John's again despite feeling slightly light-headed. John was so warm and tasted so good and Sherlock wanted him so badly, not just now but forever, he wanted this to go on forever, this moment in which he didn't need to think, just feel, and that was good and enough.

Then Sherlock felt John's tongue curl around his own and hands fisted in his hair and he pushed his own hands under John's jumper and let his palm slide down John's back while their tongues were flicking against each other again and again.

He felt hot all over when John pulled away again.

"I thought you weren't interested." John said, his face buried in the crook of Sherlock's neck. "All this time I thought-"

"Me too." Sherlock interrupted and pulled John close so that their hips ground against each other. John uttered a short low moan and then their hot and wet tongues met again, all talk forgotten.

Together they tumbled onto the sofa, touching and petting and trying to crawl into each others skin while their mouths were locked firmly. From that it was only a small step to the rustle of clothing, the sliding of skin against skin as one warm body pressed against the other, the touch of curious fingers and searching hands, moaning and short shallow breaths and eventually shuddering.

It was late when they finally fell asleep, curled around each other and covered by Sherlock's coat, both exhausted but content.

The next morning, Mrs Hudson was woken up early by the bright rays of the sun and when she drew back the curtains she saw that the sky was a clear blue that promised a nice day.

In slippers and nightgown she padded to her oven and put her slightly dented brown kettle on, cheerfully humming to herself an old song from the 60s about a long cold lonely winter and slowly melting ice. Once she'd poured herself a cup of tea she carried the mug over to the table by the backyard window and sat down. Taking a sip from her cup, she let her gaze wander over the tiny yard that was pent-up between bricks and concrete.

Spring seemed to have awoken over night, the wisteria that climbed up the back of the house suddenly sported big purple blossoms and dandelions were sprouting between the cracks in the stone with bright yellow heads. A couple of sparrows were hopping around the yard, one big and with a dark bib, the other a bit smaller and coloured a light brown, both assiduously pecking the ground. Mrs Hudson sighted wistfully when she saw that every now and then the two little birds would eye each other carefully, then tease each other with loud chirrups only to flutter apart whenever they came too close to each other.

"Oh you two dears, I so hope you'll work it out one day." she said, staring into empty space, before she took another sip from her cup.

It wasn't until several hours later, when Mrs Hudson was sweeping her floors, that two pairs of footsteps could be heard coming down the staircase at a leisure speed, mingled with snippets of conversation and the occasional soft laughter.

Curiosity piqued, she leaned the broom against the wall, quietly opened her door and peeked outside.

Sherlock and John had just reached the base of the stairs and opened the front door, Sherlock as usual in his long coat and John in his black jacket and - had they been holding hands?

The door had already closed behind John so she quickly sneaked down the entrance hall, pulled it open again and cautiously stuck her head outside.

Sherlock and John were slowly ambling down the pavement, Sherlock's right hand firmly entwined with John's left. The two men were talking animatedly and smiling at each other every now and then. They both seemed to be glowing and Mrs Hudson knew that was not only because of the morning sun.

A few yards down the pavement, they released their grip and Sherlock raised his hand to hail a cab. While they waited for the black car to stop next to them, they stood so close to each other that their shoulders touched and Mrs Hudson felt a warm and fuzzy feeling spread inside her chest when she saw it.

Finally. From the day they'd moved in she'd know that the two of them were made for each other. At first she'd assumed that they'd realize it pretty quickly, what with Sherlock being a detective and John quite smart too, but when after some time they were still just "mates" as John had explained, she'd begun to doubt her impression. Then she'd noticed the longing looks and pining glances the boys threw at each other behind each other's backs and how neither of them seemed to have the courage to take things into hands and she'd felt bad for both of them because she knew what it was like being unhappily in love. From that day onwards she'd hoped and prayed and done everything in her power to nudge them into the right direction - apparently with success.

Once John and Sherlock had scrambled into the cab and driven away, she stepped out on the pavement and watched as the car slowly disappeared round the corner, a heavy weight lifted from her heart.

"Well, my dears," she muttered. "It was about time you two were together and happy."

Fin.