Disclaimer: I own no part of Sherlock Holmes or the BBC adaptation and make no profit off of this story.

A/N: It all started with the idea of a Coin Check (my dad gave each of my sisters and I a Challenge Coin for his PD, and I've been itching to be able to use it). That being said, I've obviously never gotten to experience one myself, but reading stories and researching for this story, this is how I imagine it would go down.

There are probably inaccuracies around it, and I really do apologize if there are; I in no way mean to offend the tradition.

Also, be aware that this was written with the express intent that Series 4 never happened. There is no Rosie, and Mary's exclusion is a bit vague.

John looks himself in the mirror one last time, self-consciously smoothing his jumper down over his less-than-defined stomach before scoffing at himself. It's not like the other army boys are going to look as they did last they saw each other, either.

He had gotten the message from Bill Murray a week ago; he was getting married and wanted to meet up for a night out with the old gang, could he make it?

He sighs heavily just remembering it.

A week ago:

"Oh bloody fucking hell, no," John cursed at his phone after reading the text invite.

"Did Charlotte turn you down for a second date?" Sherlock feigned interest from the kitchen.

"Her name is Catherine and you know damn well she's just a friend from work, you twat."

Sherlock looked up from his microscope in utter shock at John's tone; the message on his phone had been a lot more distressing than he had first calculated. He stood up and moved to sit in his chair across from John calmly. He had been doing a lot better at being attentive to John's needs since he moved back in after the whole Mary thing.

"Oh God, don't do this," John pleaded angrily.

"Do what?"

"You know what."

"Be interested in your emotions and making sure you're okay?"

"Deducing and judging. I'm not a bloody client, Sherlock."

"No, you are arguably my only friend."

That shot John right in the stomach with guilt, as it usually does. His anger deflated, but he still responded with a slightly irritated: "Don't do that, either."

Sherlock shrugged, "It's just a fact. And it completely explains why I should enquire into this sudden bad mood. What news did you get?"

John breathed out heavily and told him, "My mate from the army, Bill Murray, is getting married and wants to get together with the boys."

Sherlock sat and stared at him unblinkingly for a solid minute before replying, "I don't understand. You miss your friends from the army, and this probably entails a pub or two which you are certainly not opposed to."

"It's...I haven't seen them since I was invalided home. I've barely even talked to them."

A sound emitted from his phone then, and he looked to see that one of the others had already replied to the group text saying he couldn't wait.

"You think your life is disappointing," Sherlock stated with an edge of bitterness to it. It's hard not to take something like that personally when you're a big part of said life.

"No! God no," John negated quickly; he loved his life with Sherlock, "It's just the celebrating a marriage and spending an entire night trying not to remember my own failed one with that...thing," he had taken to referring to his deranged, deceased ex-wife as a thing rather than a human. It helped to ease the pain a bit.

Another ping from his phone, and one more after that. All with some variant of "I could use some time away from the wife/kids/real life and can't wait to catch up!"

"Bloody hell, that's all but me now."

"I can go with you if you'd like," Sherlock offered quietly, pretending it was a normal progression.

"Sorry?" John asked as he looked up from his phone, his look transitioning from disdain to confusion.

Sherlock sighed in his put-upon way, "Are you really that old that your hearing is going?" he joked.

"Oi!"

Sherlock smiled, "You're worried about it being awkward and not fitting in with the guys as you used to. Now, we're both aware that I'm not great in social situations, but I could be of some use to you in this particular setting."

On one hand, it sounded like the stupidest, most childish thing in the world: needing to bring your best friend with you to meet up with some old ones, in case you needed support. But on the other hand...he'd be damned if even the prospect didn't ease his anxiety over it.

"Are you sure? You hate people."

"Most people," he corrected, "but if I get bored, I'll just deduce everyone to keep myself occupied, or invent an urgent case."

"No inventing an urgent case unless it gets both of us out of there," John negotiated.

"Deal," Sherlock smiled.

Now, how to go about asking them if he can bring Sherlock along? Something like:

I'm in. Anyone mind if I bring my flatmate Sherlock, too? If I leave him alone, he's likely to burn the place down - John

The famous Sherlock Holmes? Not a problem by me! - Bill

And everyone else had agreed. So, he was going to take Sherlock to meet his army friends.

John moves to his side table and place his keys in his overnight bag (he and Sherlock got a room at an inn in a town nearby to where Bill wants to meet up. His get-together, his choice). He hesitates as his hand hovers over the coin sitting atop the table, but figures that being out with a group of his old squadron, he's likely to need the thing, so he places it in the pocket of his jeans. Truthfully he almost always carries it with him - except at work - just in case. That's what they tell you when they give it to you: always have it within reach, just in case.

He looks quickly around the room taking stock before snatching up his wallet and heading downstairs. He finds Sherlock in his chair, typing something on his laptop.

"Are you taking your coat?"

"Of course, I always take my coat," Sherlock answered before looking up in confusion, "are you not taking yours?"

"No, I am, but yours has bigger pockets," he says as he makes an exaggerated gesture of placing his own wallet in Sherlock's left pocket.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, "By all means, help yourself," and then returns to his computer.

"Are you about ready to go? The train leaves in 45 minutes, so we need to get moving."

"All ready, I just need to finish up these notes. Should be ready in about three minutes."

"Perfect," John says, trying to fight off the feeling of nervousness that's trying to take hold again. It's just a meet up at a bar, for crying out loud! He can do this, it's not even remotely close to being a big deal.

With the last remaining minutes, John surreptitiously eyes Sherlock's bag, trying to judge by its size whether he forgot to pack anything. He rolls his eyes at the garment bag next to the luggage; posh as ever, this man. Not trusting him completely, John decides to check the bathroom to make sure that all of the other man's toiletries are missing (they are). When he returns to the living room, Sherlock is standing, moving towards his coat.

"Are you wearing jeans?" John asks before he can think about how it would sound: like he had been checking out Sherlock's ass. Well, he had been doing that, but he didn't want Sherlock to know it.

Sherlock turns to look at him, a bit embarrassed, "I thought they would be more suitable for a night out with the guys at a pub," he explains before shifting self-consciously, "Not good?"

John clears his throat before answering, "No, it's fine. I've just so rarely seen you in them, and it's usually for a case where you go undercover."

"Well, tonight will certainly take a bit of acting for your friends not to completely despise me and kick me out of the group within five minutes," he smiles while grabbing his coat and draping it over his arm, "but I'm quite good at what I do."

John just laughs, moving to grab his coat from the hanger, as well. It's not cold enough yet to wear them, but it probably will be by tonight.

"Ready?" Sherlock asks, picking up his bags and leading the way out of the flat.

John grabs his own bag and follows obediently while trying to keep his eyes above the waist, but God does Sherlock's ass look good in any cloth. Sweatpants, bed sheet, posh trousers, or plain denim, it doesn't even matter; the man knows how to dress. The deep purple button-down that he decided to tuck into the jeans and roll the sleeves up to his elbows wasn't going to make this night any easier for John to get through.

Sherlock could feel John's gaze appraising his form from behind and smiled smugly to himself.

The train ride, besides being crowded, is uneventful. John sits near the window reading while Sherlock prefers the aisle to "people watch".

"Does he really believe no one can see him picking his nose, do you think?" Sherlock asks John loudly. Luckily, the chaos in the car means the man in question still doesn't hear him.

John sighs before whispering, "I don't know, but the polite thing to do is to pretend you don't see it."

"Why?" Sherlock asks at his normal volume, refusing to follow social guidelines of mimicking a whisper, "Maybe he should know he's being seen; maybe it would shame him into correct behavior."

"When has publicly shaming someone ever permanently modified their behavior?"

Sherlock's eyes light up in interest, wracking his brain, "Oooh, this is fun now," he says with glee before launching into a tirade of multiple examples of public shaming having a positive effect.

John tries to act put-upon, but he's more genuinely entertained by the impromptu history lesson. It also doesn't hurt that Sherlock is no longer in danger of provoking a big burly man into hitting him.

They spend the rest of the ride in a deep intellectual conversation about varying forms of punishment and torture of the past. Some things, they agree, could be brought back (like public floggings), but some are better left at rest (like the iron maiden).

Once they arrive at their destination, they decide to swing by the inn to drop off their bags before heading towards the pub. They know they want to eat a more legitimate meal (or, to be more precise: John wants them to) before starting in on drinking. Sherlock fights back, of course, claiming he had eaten dinner yesterday and thus is not hungry, but John counters that he needs to lay a good base before drinking so as not to get too outrageously drunk. Sherlock attempts to point out how absurd that idea is, but it has enough points of merit that he ends up talking himself into agreeing in the end.

"So what are they like?" Sherlock asks over his plate of mediocre ravioli. No Italian compares to Angelo's anymore...except probably if they actually went to Italy. He'd have to find a case to take them there one of these days.

"The boys?"

"Obviously. Are they all stereotypical macho males?" he asks with distaste.

"No, they're not all particularly alpha males."

"That's not a real thing."

"What, alpha males?" John asks with legitimate shock, but when Sherlock opens his mouth to explain how they are not real, John hurries to wave his hand, "No, doesn't matter right now. Not the point," Sherlock closes his mouth with a disappointed look, "they may talk a big game and they'll probably want to reminisce about our time together, but they're nice enough lads."

"How many will be there?"

"Five of us: Bill, David, Zach, Alan, and me. Plus you."

"Why those five?"

John looks off, lost in thought for just a moment, remembering, "Well, most of our troupe didn't make it through the attack that invalided me home, but of those that did, we're what's left of those that were close."

"John…" Sherlock says, at a rare loss for words.

"No, don't pity me," John orders crossly. He hates pity for doing his duty to his country.

"It's not pity," Sherlock promises, "I just...you never talk about it, and it's easy for me to forget what you went through."

"That's the point of my not talking about it."

Sherlock nods in understanding, "I think it will be nice, though, to hear a bit more about what it was like for you, before you came back to London."

John smiles slightly and mutters a quiet "Yeah" and the rest of the meal passes in a companionable silence.

As they walk the block to the designated pub, coats pulled close around them to combat the chill, John is clearly nervous and Sherlock is uncharacteristically quiet. When they walk in, John looks around and spots Bill sitting at a table by himself, looking down at his phone with a beer in front of him.

"I didn't think we'd be first here," John says loudly as they approach the table; they were only five minutes early.

Bill puts his phone down on the table and stands to embrace John in a tight hug, "I was beginning to second-guess if anyone would actually show. Whatever happened to that 'to be early is to be on time' shite they drilled into us in the army?" he grumps, but the smile gives him away.

"Old age takes over, I think," John answers before motioning with his right hand, "this is Sherlock."

Bill reaches out his hand with a wide smile and Sherlock takes hold. It's a battle of strength, their tight grasps, and neither is certain who wins, "It's a real honor to meet you; I follow along on John's blog. Can't believe all the adventures you two get up to!"

Sherlock smiles courteously, "And it's good to meet an old friend of John's; you'll have to tell me all the embarrassing stories you have on him."

"Oi! I knew this would be a terrible idea," John jokes before asking Sherlock, "Pint?" Sherlock makes a face of disgust, "I know, not your favorite, but it'll be better than drinking scotch all night."

Sherlock sighs dramatically, removing his coat with a flourish unique to the detective, and gives in, "Yes, fine."

John moves to the bar with a roll of his eyes as Sherlock and Bill move to sit. It's a long rectangular table with three chairs on each side, and Sherlock follows Bill's precedence by placing his coat on top of the table beside theirs. Bill reclaims his seat on the end closest to the door, Sherlock directly across from him, and when John returns with their drinks, he sits directly to Sherlock's right.

It's only a few minutes before the other three men walk through the door together, laughing loudly.

"Can't believe you got lost!" One shouts while slapping another on the arm.

"It's not my fault I've never been here before and it's dark outside!"

"Bill! John!" The third calls out jovially, waving his arm enthusiastically and leading the other two wordlessly towards the table.

So far, Sherlock had to admit that they were all a lot more...animated than he had originally bargained for. This may be an exhausting evening.

There are lots of manly, hard hugs all around before John turns their attention to Sherlock, who is still sitting at the table.

"Boys, meet Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock: the boys," he smiles brightly, and Sherlock is glad to see that it's genuine.

Sherlock carefully gauges the situation and, by way of greeting, names them all from left to right, "You must be Zach, Alan, and David," gesturing to each as he names them.

The four strangers go slack-jawed while John merely smiles brightly at him, shaking his head in amusement. Sherlock can't help but smile back at him.

"Oh, no way!" Zach exclaims.

"John, you must have shown him pictures of us beforehand," David reasons.

"Nope," John says brightly, popping the 'p' the way Sherlock himself is prone to do, "and besides, even if I had: you lot have gotten so flabby over the years he'd never have been able to recognize you!"

"Now, Cap, that's not very fair," Bill chides, "hardly our fault that civilian food is more edible than army grub."

"Or that some of us no longer run around chasing after danger like you do," Alan reasons with a knowing smile.

"Keeps me young, boys. Now, come on and sit down; my old knees can't take standing around like they used to."

"Oh, Captain, my Captain," they chorus in unison, standing at parade rest with shit-eating grins on their faces.

"Oh for the love of god," John mumbles under his breath with a blush, "at ease. For the millionth time: I'm not Abraham bloody Lincoln."

They all sit down: Bill, Alan, and Zach on one side and Sherlock, John, and David on the other. Mostly the five former soldiers chat about old stories and "remember when"s as Sherlock happily sits taking in all of the small details about a John-before-Sherlock.

There's always been something about being with John, where he knows, logically, that they haven't known each other forever, yet the time they spent apart seems insignificant to the present.

As the second round of drinks are drained, Bill leans back in his chair with a mischievous smile on his face, his hand reaching for the pocket of his jeans. Sherlock is incredibly confused, and remains that way as Bill pulls a coin from the pocket with an air of triumph.

"Coin check!" Bill proclaims before forcefully placing the metal object on the table. He then sits back with his arms crossed over his chest, staring between them all challengingly.

Almost immediately John, Alan, and David have their challenge coins out of their pockets and on the table in front of them, but then John turns to Sherlock, "Fuck," he says in resignation, but then lights up with a memory, "Sherlock! Quick, grab my wallet from your coat," Sherlock moves to stand, but John's hand on his arm makes him pause just after rising; they lock eyes and John looks incredibly serious, "You must reach it in only one step and one reach. Can you manage it?"

Sherlock looks over at the stack of coats on the nearby table, judging the distance, before turning back to John, "Yes."

John lets him go and he focuses very intently on not messing this up. Whatever this was, they all seemed to take it very seriously. In the background he can hear Zach (he thinks) complaining about how he just moved and it got misplaced in one of the boxes, and also:

"Tick tock, Sherlock," teasing from Bill, judging by the timbre.

"Oh, bugger off! He doesn't even know what he's doing; he's only following orders right now," John argues on his behalf.

"Doesn't that sound familiar," Bill replies in a flirtatious tone that Sherlock doesn't particularly care for.

"Got it!" Sherlock says triumphantly as he sits back down and hands John his wallet.

John opens it and pulls out another coin, this one in a protective case, and places it reverently on the table in front of Sherlock instead of roughly like the other.

"Damn! I thought for sure we'd get at least two rounds from the table!" Bill mock-pouts, "Looks like it's just you, Zach."

"Uh uh," John negates with a raising of his left hand and a smile, "you challenged and you do not have the highest ranking coin on the table, so you owe Sherlock a drink."

"No way, you gave him your Captain coin?!" Bill genuinely whines before collapsing back in his chair, face towards the ceiling and arms to the side in a pose of complete surrender.

John shrugs like it's not a big deal and repeats, "Fact is: he has it in front of him, and you owe him a drink for outranking you."

Bill sits up again to continue to argue, "It's not even his! It shouldn't count."

"And yet it does," John pauses to smirk at Sherlock's incredibly confused face before turning back to Bill, "he'll take a glass of their finest scotch, if you would."

Bill, for all his complaining, pushes himself from the table good-naturedly and calls to Zach, "Come, Zacharias, we have beverages to procure."

Sherlock carefully picks up the coin in front of him to examine it closer. On one side is depicted a rifle crossing with a syringe, a dark blue beret above them; on the other, the symbol of the Royal Army Medical Corps with "Captain of the British Army", both sides with a background of red.

He places it down gently and reaches for the coin in front of John to compare. This one, never having been in a protective case but clearly placed in pockets amongst other valuables, is shoddier looking. The background is black on both sides, one with the symbol for Her Majesty's Royal Armed Forces, the other with a symbol for the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.

Both coins have a considerable weight to them.

"They're challenge coins," John explains quietly, "they're handed out upon merit. I got my Armed Forces one upon joining the squadron, as a unity tool. Once I earned my rank of Captain, the Medical Corps honored me with one of theirs."

"And you use them as a drinking game?" Sherlock asks in utter confusion, still not quite certain what just transpired.

John smiles at that, "Yes and no. Like I said: it's used as a unity tool, but also as a friendly pitting of the various branches of the Armed Forces against one another. For drinks."

"How does it work?" Sherlock is completely enthralled by John's information, and he doesn't even really realize that he's still holding John's Armed Forces coin in his hand, running his fingers over it reverently.

"About as Bill showed it. First, one person presents their coin and announces the challenge. Everyone who was challenged must present their coin in a timely fashion or be penalized by buying a round of drinks for all those who did present. There is a 'one step, one reach' rule in which you can move to get to your coin; that's what I had you use to get my spare."

Sherlock looks down at both coins again and takes in their differences, deducing quickly through the slight fuzz of alcohol, "You carry this one often, amongst other things in your pocket," he motions with the Armed Forces coin.

John nods, "They instruct you to always keep it within reach. Just in case."

"But this one," he places the first coin down to lightly trace the case of the other, as though afraid to actually touch it again, "it holds more sentimental value for you. You choose not to carry it where it can get damaged, hence keeping it protected and in your wallet."

"It's an unorthodox move," John admits, blushing slightly at the sentiment of it all; it's just a coin, afterall. But it's not really just a coin at all. It never has been, "Like I showed with Bill buying you a drink: if the challenger isn't of equal or highest standing with all others challenged, that person owes the highest a drink regardless."

"Most men would use their highest ranking coin to their advantage, to always get more drinks. But not you."

John shakes his head, "Not with my family history in mind. Also, it's not even that high of a ranking coin; these guys all just happen to be Lieutenants."

"And Johnny always plays our coin," Bill interrupts their conversation as he helps Zach with the drinks, "so I didn't think twice about the rank," he continues before placing the glass of scotch in front of Sherlock, "Your beverage, my lord."

Sherlock splutters, uncertain if this is part of the ritual, but as the men begin to laugh he assumes it's just a Bill thing, "Thank you, peasant, you may sit," he answers with an air of poshness that comes too easily to him.

The rest of the men shout in appreciation of the barb and Sherlock finally feels as though he's not a complete outcast with the group.

As Sherlock drinks his scotch (of surprisingly high quality) and the others focus on their third beers of the night, the talk turns to current life events: jobs, hobbies, significant others. It's the topic John had been fearing the most, and Sherlock finds himself naturally - if a bit subconsciously - inconspicuously placing his right hand on John's left thigh in comfort. He feels John tense initially, but then he settles quickly into it, almost leaning into the touch.

Bill is, of course, getting married to his long-term girlfriend, Bridget. David is already married to a woman he was with before he deployed; they have two kids and sound happy. Alan and John are both divorced (John even made it through his portion without having to get all dramatic and lay out all of the crazy details), and Zach has never been able to tie anyone down - male or female, he specifies to no one's surprise.

"And what about you, Sherlock?" Zach asks brazenly, "famous detective like yourself, you must get loads of attention. So which is it then: guys or girls? Or both?" He finishes asking with a barely hidden interested leer.

Beside him, Sherlock feels John tense in anger. It's probably a good thing, Sherlock considers, that himself and Zach are on complete opposite ends of the table from one another. Sherlock's hand tightens slightly on John's thigh in reassurance.

"I don't really get a lot of attention from anyone; I think once people get to know me they see me as abrasive and would rather not have anything to do with me. I've also never really taken to casual flings. I work well alone."

"But you're not alone, are you? You've got John," Alan points out.

Sherlock tilts his head in confusion. There's something about the tone that implies a deeper meaning to the surface words.

"For work," John clarifies to the group, trying not to blush.

"And for a long-term flatshare," David adds with a kind-yet-knowing smirk, "you're really telling us you haven't ever...that you aren't…?" he trails off suggestively.

John shakes his head and thanks whatever gods are watching that Sherlock can't see the pain in his eyes. He tries to play it off, but David's right: he practically committed himself to the madman beside him when he returned after things ended with Mary. He chose his life with Sherlock over attempting to establish independence from him; it's not something he wants.

"I don't understand," Sherlock says slowly, his hand slipping from John's thigh from mere lack of control; his arm just loosens and the contact breaks. John takes it as a heartbreakingly bad sign, "You who have known him assume we're together, but John's always touting vehemently about how he's not gay."

Zach laughs at that, "Well...he's not. There's a difference between being gay and being bi, ain't there?"

"And why wouldn't we think you're together? Jesus Christ, you two fit better than most married couples I've seen!" Alan adds with a smile that adds a silent 'I can't believe you can't see it'.

"God, I need to piss," John says abruptly, pushing back his chair to remove himself from the table and moving swiftly towards the back of the pub.

"Now he says it, so do I," David says before quickly following him, looking like it's quite urgent.

Sherlock sighs, looking at his empty glass, "I think I need another drink; anyone else?" he asks while standing awkwardly.

The others make affirmative noises and Zach stands, "I'll help you carry. Besides: I still owe you yours from the coin check."

In the bathroom, David corners John as they're both mid-piss, "Sorry about that, mate. You know how Zach gets."

"I know, it's just…" John finishes and moves to the sink, staring himself in the eye. The alcohol brings the confession from his mouth to one of his closest friends; going through a war with someone - now there's a trust-building bond if ever there was one, "he didn't know. Sherlock had no idea I'm interested in men, much less that we're a bit closer than usual friends."

David joins him at the sinks, turning one on and reminding John he still needs to do the same, "He's a detective; how has he missed that you like guys?"

John laughs bitterly, "Because he hasn't seen me pursue any," he turns off the water and turns to David, hip resting on the porcelain as his hands drip with water, "Since the day I met him, there has been no other man I was able to honestly consider."

"But there was your wife?" David dries his hands with a paper towel before handing a few to John.

"Now there was a mistake. It's a really long, complicated story, but I thought I had lost Sherlock forever. There was no more him, and I worried there would be no more me if I didn't try to move on," he admits quietly, looking up shyly at David. Most soldiers, he guesses, go through a phase of being worried they may not be able to go on, so he knows David gets it.

"But he came back," David states, confusion evident in his face and tone, but he isn't going to push for more than John can give.

John nods, "He came back. And I realized it then: that there's a huge difference between choosing to be with a woman because she's the one I love more than anything else in the world, and settling for a woman because I'm too scared to go for the man I may love more. So the marriage ended and I moved back in with him and…" he shakes his head sadly and locks eyes with his friend again before asking so quiet the other man almost misses it, "what the hell am I doing, Dave? What the fuck am I even doing?"

"You're worried about ruining a friendship and a business relationship; I get it. But, Johnny...your guys' mutual chemistry is off the charts. You are both so ridiculously fond of each other it's sickening," he jokes with a bit of smile to lighten the mood, "And honestly? I think you're a fool if, at our age, you're letting some stupid fear like that keep you from possibly being happy."

"But you don't know him like I do. He doesn't do these sorts of feelings. I don't know if he's even capable of it."

"You're right: you know him better than I do. All I can offer you is an outsider's view that shows that I think you're missing a key piece of the puzzle."

"And what piece is that?" John scoffs.

"The way he looks at you when you're not looking."

At the bar, Sherlock and Zach stand side-by-side waiting on the drinks. The pub has gotten busier since their arrival, but not overly so.

"Sorry about back there," Zach says, scooting just a bit closer to Sherlock, "I had no idea you didn't know about John."

"I...may have had hopes," the alcohol makes him admit with a blush, "but he certainly hasn't dated any men since I've known him, only women."

"Yeah, he was always a bit pickier when it came to men. Once he got his sights set on one, all other men disappeared for him," Zach insinuates with a pointed look and a smirk.

"You can't possibly mean…" but he couldn't bring himself to voice it aloud. Could they have possibly been hiding from each other all these years?

"Hey, I can't read minds or deduce the way you do; all I can tell you is that, having seen John in action plenty during our service, you haven't been counted out the way you think you have."

Sherlock can't think of anything to say as the pints start lining up on the bar. Zach sees John and David leave the loo and takes a calculated risk, stepping yet closer to Sherlock and laying a hand on his arm.

"Look, you two are good together. But, if you're not interested in him, I'm more than happy to give you an alternative option," he flirts with a wink at the end before picking up two of the glasses and walking back to the table.

In a flash, John has taken Zach's spot with an angry look, "What the hell? Was he flirting with you?" he asks as he glares back towards the table.

"I think he was trying to make you jealous," Sherlock says, still thrown off-kilter by the blatant flirting. He hasn't been hit on like that since college.

"He always was an arse," John grumps but calms down, "here, let me help you grab the rest of these," he says, but before grabbing any pints, he lays his hand where Zach's had been moments before and dares to look Sherlock in the eye, "Are we okay?"

Sherlock's eyes hold a veritable array of conflicting emotions and questions and longings that John has no hope of even beginning to read, but he nods and answers with a quiet, honest, "Of course."

They share a small relieved smile before grabbing the remaining four glasses and bringing them back to the table.

"It's about time! I'm dehydrating over here!" Bill needles, grabbing one of the drinks from Sherlock's hand and gulping a third of it down in one go.

The group begins talking more about their jobs and struggles of civilian life, none of which Sherlock takes much of an interest in. Instead, he steels himself and slyly replaces his hand on John's thigh, as he had earlier in the night when he needed comfort. His heart literally skips a beat (he feels it) when the fingers of John's left hand naturally slot into the spaces between his own fingers, John's thumb running lightly over the knuckle at the base of his pinky.

Once the latest round of drinks are drained, the group decides that another drink would not be wise; it was already nearing midnight as it was. They take another half hour to say goodbye's and make false promises to keep in touch more, but then they all go their separate ways.

Sherlock catches them a cab as effortlessly as he ever does and they sit with a respectable distance between them, hands to themselves.

Neither man is overly drunk, but it would be fair to say they were buzzed, and at the point where they were becoming very tired. Both men have felt the shift in their relationship tonight, and it's the most comfortable they've ever been, knowing without having to say.

When they get up to their room, John commandeers the bathroom first before lying on his left side, settling snuggly under the covers of his bed. There's a glass of water and a bottle of paracetamol on the bedside table, and he's valiantly attempting to stay awake, even as his eyes close. When Sherlock exits the bathroom, he hesitates awkwardly at the foot of the beds.

"Do we...talk about it?" Sherlock asks nebulously.

John makes some odd exhaling sound that is neither an affirmative or negative, "In the morning. For now, come to bed."

"You mean for me to join you?"

John opens his eyes entirely and turns his head to look at Sherlock, so nervous and unsure, and entirely too far away, "Unless you don't want to, but I've been making it nice and warm under these covers. I think you might like it."

Sherlock moves swiftly to the right side of the bed and climbs under the covers, lying on his right side so they are face to face. John reaches out his right hand to cross the small divide and rest against Sherlock's torso, enough to reassure them both, but not presumptuous.

When the older man's eyes begin to close again, Sherlock rushes to ask, "John? Can I ask you just one question?"

"As long as I can do it with my eyes closed," he mumbles, almost unintelligible in his fatigue.

"Zach said that, in your army days, you would set your sights on a man and all others would disappear."

"He's an arse, but he's right," he agrees, but a he can't help the large smile that comes to his face as he predicts what's coming, "What's your question?"

There's a bit of a pause as Sherlock works up the courage to voice it, "Why did I never observe you dating any men?"

John opens his eyes, all sleepy and amused and content, and says, "You may have turned me down that first night at Angelo's, but I'll be damned if I've ever met a man who could draw my attention from you."

Sherlock closes the distance between them faster than John is prepared for, his mouth claiming the doctor's.

John pulls back with a wide smile and runs his right hand through Sherlock's hair tenderly. The look in his eyes says it all without words: he's more than pleased with the entire situation, but they're both too tired to do anything about it tonight. Sherlock moves his body closer to John's and arranges them in a most pleasant fashion.

With a kiss to Sherlock's hair and a jaw-cracking yawn from them both, they finally rest comfortably in each other's arms.

A/N: Thank you so much for taking the time to read this; as always, I hope you were able to find some enjoyment here.

I would love to hear your thoughts via comment or constructive criticism!