Sometimes John got drunk.

Not 'falling over throwing, up in plant pots' drunk, but 'a little more than tipsy and probably won't remember much in the morning' drunk. And it didn't happen a lot, having seen the effects alcohol could have both short and long term in his sister, he was usually exceptionally careful. Just not always.

The first time Sherlock saw him drunk was at Lestrade's idiotic party back in June. Why the inspector had even thrown one when his wife was off in Birmingham with her latest lover neither John nor Sherlock could work out, but the doctor insisted they attend, something along the lines of 'that's what mates are for'...

The evening started off slow: dancing, music too loud and a high presence of canned larger, but it soon picked up. Around one in the morning people were pulling out shot glasses and stronger substances they'd smuggled in in hand bags.

Sherlock had never been one for drinking. He'd used drugs in the (not so distant) past, but it was almost an alternative to the euphoric high of solving crimes. He did it to see clearer and understand more, to relax his stream of thought - turn a blizzard into a drizzle - and remember. Alcohol did the opposite which he hardly thought desirable. He had previously thought John shared this view that washing away ones troubles with liquor was absurd and disadvantageous, but he was proved wrong when his friend flopped gracelessly down onto the arm of his chair.

"Have you been sitting there the entire time?" John practically giggled.
"Why shouldn't I?"
"Aww Sherlock you're no fun! Come on, Greg bet me five quid I can't get you to dance and I really need the money." his head was lolling slightly, his eyes widening as he have the detective a playful poke in the leg.
"You're drunk."
"Yup. Good deduction"
"I'm not dancing with you."
"Please?"

And this was where it got complicated. Because if he wasn't drunk or just trying to win some stupid bet, Sherlock would very much has liked to dance with John. It had taken him a very very very long time to realise this, longer to accept it and even longer to choose not to act on it. He'd never had any form of relationship beyond platonic, and those were rare in themselves; this was one area he wouldn't consider himself an expert in. And of course, even if he had known exactly what to do, he probably wouldn't have risked it. The friendship they shared was a bond he didn't think he'd see find again, it wasn't worth ruining for anything.

And yet, here John was, insisting on a dance: therein lay the problem, the only time the blond showed any outward signs of affection beyond merely friendship (or at all) was when he was intoxicated. It would be easy to say that it was nothing, a dance wasn't even that big a deal, but that was only the first time.

The second occurrence was after a particularly victorious arrest in late October. Again, it was hardly anything. A few simple touches, not enough to need talking about, not even enough to draw much attention or make tongues wag, but enough to make the detective blush faintly when (an only slightly tipsy) Lestrade raised an eyebrow. Leaning on shoulders, brushing ankles, resting a possessive hand on the smalls of backs... Near the end of the night John even took Sherlock's hand as they made their way onto the pavement to hail a cab. This earned them a few looks, probably more to do with the oddity of situation: one man drunk and pushing boundaries debatably too far, the other sober and trying desperately to look as though he wasn't immensely enjoying it.

These events, categorised by Lestrade as 'John getting gay when he's drunk', were not of course common, but they were becoming more and more frequent, and Sherlock was finding it more and more difficult not to take advantage...

Obviously they never talked about it. Of course Sherlock ways felt a tiny twinge of regret and pain when his blogger seemed to have forgotten the events that he remembered in such excruciating detail, but it was a relief. They were both happy to stay exactly where they were in their relationship, it just wasn't worth it. Besides, John got defensive and snappy when confronted with his sexuality and Sherlock preferred to act as though he still subscribed to Mycroft's 'caring is not an advantage' philosophy. Why would they talk about it anyway? It was nothing, a few barely platonic gestures, that was all.

New year's was different.
There was no way try could argue it was purely friendly. Again, it was all Lestrade's fault, and again, it was a whole evening of being the only sober one watching everyone else make fools of themselves.

They made it nowhere near midnight. Around half ten Lestrade announced that he was leaving, after a pretty brunette rejected him, and suggested Sherlock take John back to 221b as well since he wasn't exactly thinking straight (no pun intended).

John fell asleep on the taxi. He smiled sluggishly and slowly drifted over onto Sherlock's side, letting his head flop against the taller man's boney shoulder. He wasn't wearing a seat belt.

"I'm sleepy," he murmured, his head drooping even more so that his nose worried at the collar of Sherlock's coat.
"It's only quarter to eleven," the detective started, "you insisted you'd make it too midnight..."
But John shushed him, shifting slightly so his head now rested just under Sherlock's chin. "Don't talk," he said, curling his fingers tightly into the fabric the infamous coat, "people are trying to sleep..."

Getting him up the stairs and into the sofa was a challenge, but he was out cold for almost an hour after that, taking them up to nearly twelve. When he eventually woke up, all the weariness had vanished.

Sherlock was washing his hands to try and rid himself of the cloying sweat and stickiness of the pub when strong arms ambushed him from behind.

"You know," despite the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed, John's voice was early audible against the base of the taller man's neck, "last year I had someone to kiss at midnight..."
Sherlock's mouth had gone dry. He couldn't do this, neither of them wanted it really, they'd both regret it in the morning. He couldn't just let this happen... could he? His throat tightened and all could manage was "Oh."
He turned around slowly, and almost started at how close they were now. The blond was leaning against him fully so that no part of him wasn't in contact. His face was turned upward like a flower seeking the sun; his eyes so wide and so blue that Sherlock had to try very hard not to let his mind wander to metaphors and sonnets, but to no avail, he was sinking helplessly into those deep pools of tranquil warm water. He gulped, adjusting his hand positioning on the edge of the sink where they had started to slip. This couldn't be happening, it just wouldn't... shouldn't... couldn't... but it was and he wasn't doing anything to stop it. He felt almost disappointed with himself, feeling his pulse elevating, pupils dilating, breath quickening. This didn't happen to him, he was supposed to be above all of this pointless chemical emotional nonsense. But here he was, captivated and rendered practically giddy by his previously labelled heterosexual flatmate.

Then the clocks struck twelve.

All the time keeping devices in baker street were meticulously in sync and all wound to London's most famous clock. As their mouths collided, Sherlock could clearly discern the clicks of his own wrist watch, the beeping of the digital timer on the microwave, the cawing Mrs Hudson's absurd cuckoo clock from downstairs and the faint emotionless chimes of Big Ben - and all of them were out of time with the now frantic pulse.

He reeled backwards with the shock and force of the kiss, causing a dull thud as his elbow collided painfully with the sink. John giggled against Sherlock's lips as he swore under his breath, but quickly regained control.

It was surreal, that he could be right there in the moment and yet so far away, that he could sense everything between them and yet feel almost as if he were an onlooker. Because John Watson was bloody kissing him and this wasn't supposed to happen. His attraction was supposed to be a secret. This... this physical element wasn't supposed to be worth putting their friendship on the line, but it was difficult to keep clinging onto that when the whole experience was so... worthwhile... In the most disgustingly cliché way possible it was like his body was trying to lift off the ground, propelled by pure euphoric chemistry, but was being anchored by the one aspect of the whole thing he was familiar with: John.

John tasted like Sherlock had imagined (and god help him that he really had imagined these things), warmth and slightly burnt toast, but it was overpowered by the alcohol. He'd seen the doctor downing one too many pints but with the new senses of taste and touch available to him he could deduce that John'd been at the cocktail bar as well. He was attempting to discern exactly which blend when the shorter man ran his tongue effortlessly along Sherlock's lower lip and he was instantly distracted, he couldn't help but gasp.

Kissing was something he'd always thought of as a strange and unnatural locking of isolated lips, only now did he realise there was a lot more to it. It was exploration, he understood now as John's tongue ran swiftly along his teeth and over his own. Sherlock was still in too much shock to do anything except wander at the sheer odd pleasantness of it all and start committing these very knew sensations to his mind palace for further scrutiny. John's hand was on the back of neck, forcing his head downward; after only a few racing heartbeats hesitation Sherlock let the clearly much more experienced man angle his head more to the right and down a bit and oh god that was good... he shivered again. Yes, yes this was so much more than he had ever considered.

And that was only the contact they had with their mouths. Fingers that'd he'd seen tapping at keyboards, clenching into fists, pulling on triggers, even had interlaced with his own were roughly grabbing at his curls. Others were making their way - with more force than strictly necessary - down his spine and hooking possessively and with strength Sherlock would never have predicted into his waistband. There wasn't an inch of space between them. It was as if John was determined to have the upper hand to prove a point about his height, he was stretching at the same time as Sherlock's knees were going weak and he was pushing the taller man nearer to the bathroom floor. Denim rubbed at Sherlock's ankles as they drew even more closely intertwined. He wandered if maybe he should do something, anything to respond in kind rather than just standing there in a state of shock.

But then it was over even more unexpectedly than it had begun. John suddenly pulled away from the stunned detective, his hands now both framing skinny hips, their noses still touching ever so slightly. His widened eyes bore into Sherlock's equally distended grey ones with so much intensity that Sherlock gulped.
"Happy new year," he said before sweeping out of the room leaving a dazed and breathless Sherlock clutching at the sink to stay standing. His knuckles were as white as the porcelain, his breathing laboured.

Because That just happened. And it must have been a dream or a figment of his imagination because That didn't happen. Not to him and, if John's irritable denials were to be believed, not to any man.

But it did. And it was... it was good.

'Happy new year' he mouthed wordlessly, sinking slowly onto the cold tiles.

Hey everyone, hope you're enjoying so far. So this is going to have three chapters, hopefully updated on a regular, fortnightly basis. So please click on follow if you want to read the resolution of this :) Also, I cannot tell you enough how happy reviews make me, so whatever you thought please leave a comment xx

PS - this was originally inspired by the All Time Low song 'Stella', until I realised I had totally misinterpreted the lyrics lol. So yeah, if you liked this you might want to have a look at my collection of ATL one shots, 'Nothing Personal', because yeah it's the same sort of thing :)