The stakeout took much longer than Sherlock had anticipated. John didn't really mind. They were both more than a bit tipsy, John because Sherlock kept buying him drinks to keep up their cover and Sherlock because he had the alcohol tolerance of a twelve-year-old. The chase afterward was brief, which was good. Tipsy Sherlock was cheerful, slightly uncoordinated, and tactile. Lestrade blinked twice at Sherlock's state, glanced at John, then snuck a few pictures with his phone while Sherlock wasn't looking. John made a mental note to ask him to share. Sherlock started gesticulating wildly as he explained his trail of deductions, though, voice a bit louder than usual, and all John could do was gape.

Because the man was beautiful. There really was no denying that. Cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, high on the thrill of a successful case. John usually tried very hard to shove that particular observation to the back of his brain, lest Sherlock notice, but he'd passed the threshold for an internal filter a pint and a half ago. Sherlock was brilliant and gorgeous and John's usual compliments kept pouring out even though he didn't mean them to.

Sherlock only got more animated the more John interrupted, though, the constant stream of "incredible!" and "fantastic!" fueling his exaggerated recitation. Lestrade just smiled and shook his head.

"Wish you'd called me before he 'happened' to run into a brick wall twice," he said mildly, "but you two are a good team. You're also soused."

Sherlock frowned and drew himself up to his full height. He looked rather like a meerkat, which didn't help make him more intimidating at all. "I know exactly how much alcohol John and I consumed," he announced.

"Doesn't mean you're not a bit sloshed." Lestrade snorted. "Off to Baker Street with you, now - your statements can wait until the morning." He glanced at John. "Or afternoon, I suspect. Go on."

Sherlock managed to hail a cab thirty seconds later, because of course he did, and somehow he and John ended up in the back seat in a tangle of limbs. John could have sworn his own legs were properly in front of him, but Sherlock somehow took up the entire seat with loose elbows and shins and that damn lazy smile that always made John start Thinking Things.

"I'm not drunk," Sherlock insisted, a slight slur to his words.

John nodded. "Of course. N'm I."

"We caught him."

"Yes, we did."

"Good."

And then Sherlock leaned across the space between them and planted a moist kiss on John's mouth, in full view of the cab driver and whatever portion of London happened to be looking their way. John debated whether to kiss back or not, but by the time he'd decided on I probably shouldn't he realized he already was. His hand was on the nape of Sherlock's neck, holding his head steady, and his tongue was more or less in Sherlock's mouth without any actual input from his brain. Sherlock seemed to approve of this state of things, as far as John could tell, because he was kissing John back and oh, that mouth was good for a lot more than pontification. John's sense of time may have been a bit warped from the alcohol (not drunk, dammit), but it seemed like they'd only just started the good part when the cabbie was clearing his throat and the familiar red door of 221B Baker Street was outside the window.

Sherlock charged inside and left John to pay, as usual. And left his coat and scarf on the floor of the sitting room, as usual. He was already inside his room with the door shut by the time John got up the stairs, though, which was not usual. John considered knocking, seeing whether that kiss was intended as a prelude to something else, but some part of him recognized Sherlock's "leave me alone" signal even through his alcohol-induced haze.

He went up to his own room instead, wanked furiously, and fell asleep without even taking the time to clean himself up.

This was followed by an increasingly awkward two weeks during which Sherlock seemed to be trying his best to pretend nothing had happened. And maybe he'd deleted the whole thing, the berk, but John was damn sure he could trust his memory from that night and what he remembered was Sherlock's tongue tangling with his own.

Sherlock wasn't acting like he'd actually forgotten, either. He was acting like he expected John to want A Serious Talk I Mean It Sherlock and was doing everything in his power to avoid John getting the opportunity to voice anything. The attempted shut-out would have been a bit offensive, honestly, if John hadn't been fluent in Sherlock-ese. Sherlock avoiding something meant Sherlock was having an emotion and didn't know what to do about it. John's usual two solutions were to either pretend everything was fine or to corner Sherlock in the kitchen and force him to acknowledge whatever-it-was that had him so riled.

That kiss didn't exactly fit with anything John and Sherlock had encountered together before, though, so John wasn't entirely sure what to do about it. Therefore, when Sherlock actually stayed put on the couch when John came home from the surgery one afternoon, John seized the chance while he had it.

"Thinking profound thoughts?" he asked. Sherlock was in what John privately thought of as his effigy pose, hands pressed together with his forefingers touching his lips. His warm, mobile, expressive lips. Lips John had spent the last two weeks obsessing about. "You look like you could be a statue like that, you know."

Sherlock hmmed but otherwise didn't move.

"You always seem to come up with something incredible afterward," John continued. "I don't know anyone else who thinks as thoroughly as you do. Wish I knew how to emulate it. Brilliant, really."

Anyone except John might have missed the way Sherlock's breathing caught, just for a moment, before resuming its steady pace.

Interesting.

"I mean, you're always brilliant, of course." If Sherlock liked praise, then John could work with that. The man deserved it so frequently. "It just blows my mind how brilliant, though. You're so very good at knowing exactly what to do. Practically read people's minds. You want to try reading my mind right now?"

Sherlock's gaze slanted over to John's face. There was a slight flush in his cheeks - not so much anyone else would have noticed, but enough to tell John that Sherlock was having to work to appear so calm. It gave him a bit more confidence that Sherlock wasn't about to stomp off in a snit. John hung his coat up on the hook beside the door, then went to join Sherlock on the sofa.

"Budge up." He nudged Sherlock's head with his hip until Sherlock had wriggled down a bit and there was space to sit. The top of Sherlock's head was still pressed against his left thigh, but they'd done this before (mostly because Sherlock tended to ignore the whole concept of personal space and John secretly enjoyed letting him) so it wasn't that bold a move. Sherlock tilted his head backward a fraction so he could read John's face.

"Usually you're not in this easygoing a mood," Sherlock observed, fingertips still pressed to his philtrum. "Good day at the surgery, then. Mostly routine but one interesting patient around noon. It's cool but sunny outside; you enjoyed the walk back to the Tube. Gave the violinist on Aldersgate your spare change because he reminded you of me. You got a seat on the Tube even though your leg doesn't bother you anymore, but you gave it up for someone more deserving. Young and pregnant, presumably. You came up with a title for that blog post you've been sitting on - something insipid and alliterative, no doubt. You're also hoping you can talk me into curry for supper. Did I miss anything?"

John huffed out a laugh. "Not that I can recall. Although now I expect you to tell me how you knew. May want to fool you one of these days."

Sherlock arched one eyebrow, which was significantly less effective upside-down but still made John want to lean down and snog the living daylights out of him. "Ink smudges on your left hand means you were writing quickly, which you only do when a patient has presented you with something out of the ordinary and you needed to chart everything before you forgot it. Weather is obvious; I know you and your inexplicable obsession with fresh air. You always buy a ham sandwich from Pret with cash and get a pound sixty-three in change; your pockets didn't jingle when you hung up your coat so you gave the coins away."

"Brilliant," John said reflexively. "I mean, you always are, but still. How do you know the violinist reminded me of you?"

Sherlock looked away for a moment, but his eyes crinkled up around the corners. "His name is Chaz," he said. "And he studied at the Royal Academy of Music until he lost his flat and had to beg friends for a place to live. We share much of the same repertoire. You were humming Paganini as you came up the stairs."

"Absolutely incredible." John sighed, leaning back and letting his hand not-so-accidentally rest in Sherlock's hair. "Keep going - I love how you can pull everything together like this. The Tube?"

"Also the humming. You're feeling proud of yourself because you've been reminded you no longer need a cane, hence giving up your seat to someone you felt needed it more. I knew about the curry because it's Thursday and the restaurant at the end of the block has a particularly aromatic special on Thursdays. You're hungry."

"Christ." John slid his fingers through Sherlock's curls, scratching lazily, and he didn't miss the way Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed and his back arched before he caught himself and pretended he hadn't noticed. Smug like a goddamned cat. Somehow John had begun thinking of smug-cat-Sherlock as the man's natural state. "I am hungry," he admitted, "but I don't want to get up yet. Would rather sit here and play with your hair. It's so soft. And I love how much me touching it relaxes you."

Sherlock did close his eyes at that, inhaling a shaky breath and - just for a moment - letting a look of pure bliss settle over his face. "I have very sensitive follicles," he murmured.

"Mmmm." John let the silence stretch, any potential awkwardness stemming from the fact this wasn't exactly what just-friends flatmates did dissipating into Sherlock going boneless and melting into the cushions. Even if all Sherlock wanted from him was just this, John decided, he'd happily give it. There were worse things to come home to.

Sherlock muttered something when John shifted his hips to get a better angle, using both hands to give a proper massage to Sherlock's scalp and temples, but he didn't make any move to get up. John kept going until Sherlock was practically purring - goddamned cat again - and was probably more than half asleep.

"I keep thinking about the other week in the cab," John said quietly, fingers still moving.

Sherlock didn't open his eyes, but his breathing got shallower.

"Seems a damned shame is all," John continued as if he hadn't noticed. "It was a bloody good kiss and I'd been wanting to do that for some time. Not that I'm surprised, I suppose - you're brilliant at pretty much anything when you put your mind to it. Flattering that you put your mind to seducing me. Or I'd hoped, anyway. Any of this ring a bell, or did you delete the whole thing?" He slid his hands down to cradle Sherlock's skull, working Sherlock's temples with his thumbs. "I'm sure you know I've wondered about your history, but I didn't want to ask."

Sherlock made a small sound of distress. "No history," he said quietly. "I miscalculated the effect of alcohol on my inhibitions that night. I . . . assumed my overtures were unwanted."

"Based on what evidence?"

"You were drunk."

"Doesn't mean I didn't want it." John hummed in appreciation of the memory. "In everything else - practically everything - you're the one leading and I'm the one following two steps behind. Seems to me if you were interested, I could do the teaching for once."

Sherlock opened his eyes and tilted his head back to stare quizzically at John's face. "You're offering to tutor me?"

"If you mean like an academic class, no. If you're amenable to this friends-and-flatmates situation becoming something more, though . . . well, I'm sure you'd be a brilliant student."