Sherlock was curled up on the couch for the third evening in a row. John was sure he had been there, in that position, for the entire day. Hadn't said anything, hadn't eaten anything. Just stared at the back of the couch in his ratty t-shirt and robe.

John had had enough. He went upstairs to look through Sherlock's dresser. After twenty minutes of searching, he found an old pair of dark jeans and grabbed his favorite purple shirt. Before leaving the bedroom, he grabbed Sherlock's shoes and a pair of socks.

Heart racing, John flew back down the stairs. He was glad when he saw that Sherlock hadn't moved at all. John set his jaw and walked toward his companion.

"John, I'm so bored." Sherlock mumbled into the couch cushion. The consulting detective's eyes were closed and his expression was bordering on pained.

"Well," John said sternly. "I'm here to do something about that." He dropped the clothes on top of his friend. "Get dressed. We're going out."

Sherlock's head whipped around, blue eyes blazing. "What?"

John looked his friend straight in the eye. "Get dressed. We. Are. Going. Out." Then John turned on his heel and went to get ready himself. He could hear Sherlock's confused remarks following him, but he ignored them. If you wanted to really get Sherlock's attention, you had to treat him like he treated everyone else.

Fifteen minutes later, John came back into the main room to find Sherlock dressed in the clothes he'd brought down, a scowl on his face.

"John, why did you have me dress in jeans?" There was no attempt to hide the terseness in his voice.

"Because," John retorted. "We are going to have fun."

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes, throwing his head to one side. "Your idea of fun and mine differ greatly. I don't have fun," he spat. "I have mental stimulation."

John stood, unmoving. "Come on, Sherlock. You need to get out of the house." He could already tell that Sherlock was going to come with him, since he'd gotten dressed. He was just going to fight, tooth and nail, every step of the way. John held out his hand to help his companion up, but Sherlock did not take it. John pursed his lips and turned to walk out of the apartment. He knew Sherlock would be behind him.

John hailed a cab and when he opened the door, Sherlock slid into the cab. John tried to hide his smile as he secretly hoped that tonight went well. He told the cabbie where to take them through the driver's window before he climbed into the cab himself.

"What?" Sherlock's brows knitted together. "What was that? Where are we going?"

"I told you," John said, looking toward his friend. "We're going to have fun."

The scowl returned to Sherlock's face. "I doubt we're going to go check on my experiment at Bart's."

"Nope."

"Not going to pick up a new cylinder set."

"No. I'm sure you'll notice as soon as we get along a little farther."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stayed silent, watching the street pass by through the window. John could feel nervousness grow in the pit of his stomach. Though he was sure he knew his friend quite well, he wasn't quite sure how the consulting detective would react to where they were going. John's thoughts circled in his head until Sherlock scoffed.

"Really John? You're taking me to a club?" He didn't look back into the cab, he just continued to stare out the window.

John didn't answer. He couldn't gage his companion's reaction. This was a stupid idea, why had he even attempted? Thankfully, the club was relatively close to their flat, so John didn't have enough time to psych himself out. They pulled up to the club just as night was setting in. John gave the cabbie his money and followed Sherlock into the pulsing building.

It was loud inside. The lights were fluorescent and constantly moving, flashing blues and purples. The music was loud, shaking the building, and admittedly a little obnoxious. Sherlock immediately sat at the bar. John slid in next to him, trying to avoid the glare his friend was shooting at him. "You gotta admit, at least it's fun people watching at places like this." John shouted over the music. He ordered two drinks from the bartender.

Sherlock sighed. "Please. Watching desperate people trying to get lucky while getting stupidly drunk? That is not what I call fun, John." Sherlock took both drinks that the bartender had set in front of them and downed them both. He winced as the alcohol burned down into him. John raised his eyebrows in surprise and called for another round.

Sherlock immediately drank whatever was set near him and it wasn't before long that his fingers were tapping along to the beat of the incessant music. John smiled to himself and couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock was getting buzzed for his sake; he was beginning to smile and joke around a little. Perhaps, he could get his best friend to dance with him a little.

As the two friends were laughing at a drunken man who had fallen trying to dance around a group of girls, a new face joined their midst. A girl had come and put her arms around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock recoiled, jumping forward, too fast for his tipsy body to control. John rushed to catch him and they both ended up on the floor, overtaken with giggles. They helped each other up and before Sherlock could sit down, John pulled him over to the dance floor. A song had come on that he was actually familiar with. John wasn't much of a dancer, but his body moved more fluidly with a few drinks in him. He swayed from side to side around Sherlock, giggling at the man's confused expression, his eyes, dark gray in this light, screaming for help.

John punched his friend lightly in the shoulder, at the very least to get him moving. Sherlock wobbled, his body somehow falling in time to the music. After he got a handle on the beat, Sherlock grabbed John's hand and began to lead him in some sort of mix between the wild flailings that were now considered dancing and the tango. Somehow it worked with the music and soon people were giving them room on the dance floor and some even tried to imitate. As he was being spun, John vaguely marveled at how good a dancer his friend was, and how effortless it all seemed even with the alcohol in his system.

After a few hours, the pair grew tired. As they left the club, Sherlock was still moving to the beat that was audible outside of the club, singing made up words and flailing his arms. John held onto his sides in an effort to keep them from splitting. He had been laughing nearly nonstop since first setting foot on the dance floor. They hailed a cab and clung to each other to try and keep from falling over, especially with all the stairs in 221B. John helped Sherlock into his bed, and was about to turn to go to his own room when Sherlock grabbed a hold of his wrist.

"John." The detective slurred. "John, wait." Sherlock pulled him closer, causing him to stumble. He caught himself in a sitting position on the side of the bed and quickly decided there was too much work involved in getting up again. He lay back next to his friend. "John, please don't tell Lestrade about what happened tonight."

John chuckled. "Why would I tell Lestrade?"

"I don't know!" He exclaimed. "And don't put it on your stupid blog either." Sherlock kicked off his shoes and rolled over to face him. "Promise you won't."

"I promise, I promise," John said, throwing his hands up in defeat. The remark seemed to pacify his friend. A small silence passed between the two. "Thank you for appeasing me, tonight." John whispered after he thought his friend had fallen asleep. He rolled onto his side, back to his friend.

"Thank you for the fun," Sherlock whispered back.

John felt Sherlock move, closing in the inches between them. The closeness shocked John at first, but it passed almost immediately as warmth flooded his body and sleepiness overtook him.