It was 15 past midnight. The moon was full and bright, bathing the quiet countryside of the South Downs in glowing light. Large snowflakes floated gracefully to the ground and decorated the landscape like powdered sugar. The night was saturated with tranquil beauty.

And Sherlock Holmes couldn't give a flying fuck. He glared down at his (rather pissed) flatmate, splayed half-asleep in his seat with his seatbelt forgotten, with undisguised antipathy. Sherlock sniffed disdainfully and looked out of the taxi's window, trying to salvage what remained of his dignity. At least he'd had the common sense not to drink, something John was uncharacteristically lacking tonight. Still, he did tend to loosen up on so-called 'special occasions.' Sherlock couldn't see any reason to make a big fuss over something so trivial as the earth going once more around the sun. It wasn't as if it hadn't happened before -

Oh, hell. The earth goes around the sun; a superfluous piece of information that lingered on in his brain though it should have been deleted again long ago. Why was he still wasting valuable space with such drivel?

Because John cares, was his brain's immediate response. Sherlock, surprised by the thought, shook his head; since when did he bother with anyone else's opinions?

Since you met John, his mind cut in. Sherlock grimaced. He had paid many a price for his mental acuity, and his brain's overefficiency was one of them. Didn't it realise that there were some questions that didn't need immediate answering?

The inevitable cheeky cognitive reply was cut off as the cab hit a pothole in the road and John's head flopped onto Sherlock's shoulder. Instantly, Sherlock's breath hitched, and his internal dialogue fell silent. He blinked slowly and felt a blush begin to creep across his cheeks. It seemed he didn't need to drink at all to lose his dignity; all it took was close contact with John and he was incapacitated.

He felt a groan of frustration rise in his throat and pushed it down, not wanting to wake John. Instead, he ran his fingers through his hair and tried stubbornly to think of anything but the ridiculous man currently sprawled on his shoulder and snoring gently. He shifted his focus to the music the cabbie had been playing. It was inane and absurdly chipper, but poisoning his mind with pop music was better than the alternative, namely, facing his actual feelings towards his flatmate.

Sherlock closed his eyes, rested his head on the window, and focused on the words of the song:

'I don't want another pretty face

I don't want just anyone to hold

I don't want my love to go to waste

I want you and your beautiful soul...'

For a fraction of a second, he smiled, feeling the warmth of John's head on his shoulder. Then, with a shock, his eyes flew open. He blushed harder, appalled by his mutinous emotions. He estimated his pulse to be almost double its usual rate. No. This would not do. He quickly yelled for the cabbie to turn it off, damn you, and tried to shove James off his shoulder. He only succeeded in dislodging him briefly before he settled back down again, this time in his lap.

Sherlock let his head hit the seat with a groan. Great, now what? He was stuck with a drunk-off-his-ass John on his lap, and it would be at least an hour (precisely one hour, thirty minutes and 47 seconds) more before they would reach London, let alone Baker Street. He was just preparing another attempt to shove John off his lap when he heard a faint moan.

"...Sher-lock…"

Oh thank god, he thought. He's awake.

"Oh good, you're awake." he said in his rudest tone. "Will you please get off my lap now?" Then he realized: John was still asleep. He froze, and his heart beat still faster. He realized that he had stopped breathing, and slowly exhaled. This was new.

His preoccupation with his own thoughts immediately forgotten, he pored over John's face, his mind racing. John was smiling, his hand twined in the fringe of Sherlock's scarf. He wasn't sure what to make of this; he had never known John to be one for excessive affection, yet here he was, sprawling on his lap and murmuring his name in his sleep. Then again, Sherlock had been absolutely certain he wasn't the affectionate type until a few short moments ago, but now...

He had come face to face with emotions he only just realized he'd been grappling with for some months' time. It was easy to brush them off when one maintained a physically distant relationship, but now, in the act of what could only be described as 'canoodling,' they were directly in the spotlight. He supposed it was a relief in a way; at least now he wouldn't have to expend all that unconscious effort trying to suppress his emotions from entering his awareness. He rather suspected that that was the reason for his recent decrease in mental clarity.

He felt John stir and realised with a start that he'd been instinctively stroking his hair during his internal struggle. He jerked his hand back and stared wide-eyed at John, afraid that not even the four drinks he'd had would let this go unnoticed. Terrified, he waited for John to say something, anything to break this terrible silence.

But no words came. Instead, John looked up at him with bleary affection, fumbled for Sherlock's hand, and placed it back on his head. When Sherlock stayed frozen, John frowned, pushed himself up, and grabbed Sherlock by the collar.

"Why," he said very seriously, albeit slurred, " did you stop?"

Unable, for once, to come up with a satisfactory answer, Sherlock settled for opening and closing his mouth a few times. Then, John did a strange and wonderful thing. He grasped Sherlock's other collar and drew him closer, and Sherlock noted with some surprise that while he knew what was coming, he didn't want to stop it. He closed his eyes just before their lips met, resigned to whatever would follow.

What did follow caught him completely by surprise. Obviously John knew his way around this, but Sherlock hadn't known just how skillful he was. It started as a gentle touch and soon grew more passionate; clearly John had been holding back for a while as well. Sherlock felt like he was weightless; for the first time since his early childhood, the part of his brain that was constantly observing, recording, and calculating switched off without the use of drugs. Instead, his mind was blissfully silent.

After several charged moments, Sherlock pulled away, dumbstruck. He noted with some bemusement that one of his hands was buried in John's hair, the other cupping his cheek, while both of John's had wound around his torso beneath his coat. John smiled cheekily.

"Not s'bad, eh?" he slurred.

Before he could say anything else, Sherlock had brought their faces together again, this time intent on recording every sensation. He breathed in and was surprised to find that the lingering scent of alcohol was not unpleasant, and that beneath it, still detectable, was an undefineable scent that belonged uniquely to John. He faintly heard himself moan over the din of his own heartbeat. Each touch sent warmth flooding to Sherlock's fingertips until it all became too much and he had to pry himself away again.

John giggled and shot a wry glance at the rearview mirror, where the cabbie was watching, wide-eyed. Sherlock, already flushed, felt more blood rise to his face, and fervently hoped he had enough money for a generous tip. John flashed him a lopsided smile and leaned forward conspiratorially.

"This is nothing," he whispered in Sherlock's ear, "Wait 'til I'm sober."