Sherlock was bored, and in a bad way. Fidgety, cranky, bad-things-will-happen-if-I-don't-get-a-hit-soon bored bored bored. There were no cases, no cigarettes, and absolutely not a crumb of anything whatsoever worth capturing his attention. Well, almost.

Frustration catapulted him upright from where he had been draped melodramatically over the couch. He barked out a groan, flexing his large hands, his face contorting into something dangerous. By now, his far too patient flatmate had grown used to these episodes, and therefore continued to sit quietly. It was times like these John was very grateful for technology. While the consulting detective threw himself a fit, the blogger wrote himself a blog and happily ignored him. There was nothing to be done at this point but hope the flat didn't earn a few new holes. Mission Ignore Petulant Sherlock seemed to be going well, as a matter of fact. Too well. John glanced up from the laptop.

Sherlock was looking at him in the same way he looked at crime scenes. His eyes were crisp, clear, and very loudly scrutinizing. It was unsettling, to say the least, and all at once John felt as if naked. Not that being Sherlock-scanned was new to him, but this… This was different. He tried and failed to suppress a shudder. Before he could open his mouth to say, well, something, the eyes clicked away. They shifted subtly, back-and-forth, processing information. He glanced at John once more, and nodded to himself.

"Come here."

Another thing the long-suffering doctor had learned was when asking questions was a waste of breath. Now was most decidedly one of those times. Be that as it may, he hesitated. After a moment of internal struggle, he shut the laptop. Stepped in front of the couch. Sherlock rose, as well, until he was staring quite intimately down at the shorter man. He leaned forward, suddenly, and …sniffed. It was such a very Sherlock thing to do that John almost felt relieved -until the taller man failed to pull away. He stayed there, hovering completely past any fathomable threshold of personal space, his nose tickling the place just where John's neck disappeared into his jumper. John swallowed.

Then slowly, almost tenderly, those large hands floated out to settle at John's waist. He shuddered again, but in an entirely different way.

Had you asked him before how he would react in this exact situation, he would not have hesitated to say that he would push his flatmate away at once and demand an explanation. In practice, however, this did not seem to be the case. John could not have moved at that moment if he tried. It was the warm weight of Sherlock's hands, the electric buzz that occupied the air between them. Sherlock's eyes, now peering into his own. He had really never seen another human being with eyes quite like these, no he hadn't. He was anchored right to the spot. Without really deciding to, he placed his own hands on Sherlock's upper arms, tentative. The eyes searched him, questioned him-

Oh.

Though gravity would have just as easily closed the small distance between the lips of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, John's body gleefully provided the service. Yes, yes, good this is good yes perfect, it said, simply thrumming. Sherlock's lips, why had he never paid any attention to them before? Plump and soft and sweet and oh. Yes perfect. Sherlock's arms encircled John, pulling the two heartbeat-close. John's arms shifted upwards, guiding his hands into Sherlock's hair. Sherlock's soft, thick curls. Soft as a girl's.

Abruptly, reason made its belated entrance into John's senses. He staggered backward, nearly shoving Sherlock back on the couch in the process. His face was a notable shade of mortified. He opened his mouth to speak, wanting an array of curses to fall on the idiot's deranged head, but not much managed to squeak out past,

"Nope."

Sherlock simply stared back, his lips parted slightly with disbelief and bloody hell had his mouth really just been on those? Well yes, they were quite obviously swollen and flushed pinker than usual and for the love of god stop staring at Sherlock's lips, John. At a loss for speech, he pivoted, grabbed his coat, and was out the door as fast as his legs would take him.

Sherlock huffed, scowled, and fell to the couch with a flourish. There would most assuredly be some new holes in the wall before his return.

The edge of his rage had been dulled by the walk, but John was by no means in good spirits as he entered the grocery. He had seriously considered stopping at the pub, but had reluctantly decided against it, seeing as how it was not yet two in the afternoon. Damn it all. Damn the world's only consulting detective and damn his lips for being so… Well, they were really rather feminine, weren't they? In fact, his whole face could be considered androgynous. The tallness and the baritone voice made up for it, of course, but when you were very quietly face-to-face, well. John couldn't help it if the man was pretty, now could he? That was it, of course. John's spirits lifted just the tiniest bit. His pocket vibrated.

Need vinegar. And bullets. SH

So much for lifted spirits.

Sod off. You're paying for the wall.

He managed to get three whole items into the cart before the next message.

You're upset. SH

No shit, Sherlock, he thought. The phone was shoved back into his pocket. Tea; he'd better grab some. Were they out of sugar? Hmm. Better to be safe, he supposed. Buzz.

You had ample opportunity to say no. SH

John concentrated very hard on not tossing his phone across the store. Buzz.

Milk. SH

John Watson was a saint. Not only had he managed to not use violence against his phone in a public place, but he had also picked up both vinegar and milk, at Sherlock's request. Because he was the most patient man in the known universe. The bullets would have to be a different trip. As soon as he got in the door and put the groceries away, he would make himself a cup of tea, take his laptop to his room, and be left the hell alone, thank you.

Naturally, that didn't happen.

He came home, put the groceries away while mostly ignoring the sensation of being watched, made himself (and begrudgingly, Sherlock) a cup of tea, and drank in silence, noting that his laptop had in fact become Sherlock's hostage next to him on the couch. Underneath a pillow. The man in question sipped his tea with an air of innocence.

"Sherlock, hand me my laptop."

"Get it yourself."

John rose, not yet sure if he meant to claim his property or punch Sherlock and then claim his property, but it didn't really matter anyway because as soon as he broached couchspace Sherlock had his wrists trapped in his hands and the rest of him trapped between his knees.

"Sherlock, let go."

"Wrong."

"What?"

"What you're about to say. The 'I'm not gay' bit." He tried to break free, he really did. But Sherlock was very strong. And very warm.

"What happened earlier, that was… a mistake. I don't want it happening again," John muttered. Sherlock looked up at him. And then he hummed, a smirk perking up those lips. It was a very deep, very manly sound. He could practically feel it vibrating through him, and damn if it didn't do things to him. Breathing at once became a more active task.

"Ahem. Well, actually," He managed, "perhaps today is an off day." With that, he leaned in kissed Sherlock truly of his own volition, and that mouth was indeed perfect yes perfect.

John's spirits were lifted a great deal. As were Sherlock's.

The day Sherlock discovered a better distraction than putting holes in walls was the same one John's not-gay bit had an off day, so it turns out. Coincidentally, the next day was much the same. And the next. And, well, you get the picture.