Sherlock regarded his elder brother with suspicion. It was uncharacteristic enough that he would even attend a NSY pub night, let alone be four - really, Mycroft, four? - drinks in and chatting with two (albeit terrified looking) young officers. The consulting detective turned a questioning eye toward Lestrade.
"What, precisely, have you done to Mycroft?"
Greg stifled a laugh behind his pint. "Thought he could use to loosen up a bit. Introduced him to Long Island Iced Teas."
"And how, pray tell, did you manage to convince him to consume enough alcohol to become publicly intoxicated? Mycroft rarely finishes two fingers of whiskey with someone else in the room."
"Oh, that's easy," Greg replied, carefully diverting his eyes from John, who was pouring shots of something colorless into Sherlock's half-filled glass on the bar top. "Pink umbrellas. He's a sucker for 'em. Oh, and I might've forgotten to mention the exact alcohol content. Or the fact that they weren't, you know, regular iced teas…"
John chuckled as he slid the evidence of his own dubious action away just in time for Sherlock to turn and collect his drink.
"Who knows, boys," Greg winked, "tonight may just turn out a mite more fun than you'd anticipated."
"What in the…" John trailed off, craning to see over Sherlock's shoulder.
"Jawn," came the whiny reply, "this is important, are you listening? I was telling you about that time at the… ruling… lady's… place. You know, the time?"
"Yes, Sherlock, I know about the time. I was there." Typical Sherlock. Get him the slightest bit drunk and the arrogant sod immediately began droning on about his trip to Buckingham Palace. Oh well, that didn't matter now. What did matter was the fact that –
"Wait! Why is whatshisname up at the… front… sound-enhancing… thing with my brother?"
"I dunno, but I'm a little - "
"And now, for your listening enjoyment," Lestrade's voice rang through the crowded pub, "my companion and I will be performing a little number I've worked up for the occasion. It's been a year since the infamous Study in Pink, so in honor of the 'anniversary' of Dr. John Watson, played by yours truly, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he bowed to his shockingly inebriated partner, "I present to you, without further ado…"
Music issued abruptly from the speakers staggered around the ceiling. John recognized the tune almost immediately, as did several others judging by the laughter filling the cramped room. That particular episode of Scrubs had just been aired again on telly last night. As the two unlikely crooners referred to their page of lyrics in mock sincerity, John only had time for one final thought: Oh, this can't be good…
[Lestrade]
We need to face the facts about me and you,
And what we've tried to hide
Though I'll loudly claim I am not gay
Everyone we know thinks so anyway!
(Please, John thought, blood rushing to his face as he realized what was about to happen, please… please, no.)
[Mycroft]
I feel the same feelings that you do
But I don't want to keep them inside
'Cause this detective can't stand to see you lie
It's so obvious that you are bi
No need to explain our
(Oh dear god WHY?)
[Both]
Eye love,
That's what it is
Eye love,
He's mine, I'm his
Everything we do not say is in our eyes.
[Mycroft]
You ask me 'bout this thing we share,
[Lestrade]
And bluntly he replies
[Mycroft]
It's eye love
[Both]
It's sex with our eyes
[Mycroft]
We're closer than the average flatmates are
[Lestrade]
That's why I blog about our life
[Mycroft]
You know I'll stick by you, through every bullet and knife
[Lestrade]
You're the only man who's ever pulled semtex off me
[Mycroft speaking]
Well, I just didn't want to see you explode.
Not that I'm complaining.
[Lestrade]
There's no need to explain,
[Mycroft speaking]
Obviously.
(John buried his face in his hands as laughter erupted around the room. He ignored the drunken snicker beside him, still too floored to risk looking at his friend's reaction.)
[Lestrade]
It just keeps growing more each day
It's like I married my best friend,
[Mycroft]
I wouldn't have it any other way!
[Both-grabbing hands]
Let's go!
Eye love,
We'll compromise
This feeling of another guy
Holding all your heart-
Please never tell me Goodbye
[Lestrade]
I'll be there to stitch up all your wounds
(A deep baritone chuckle sounded in John's ear. Is he enjoying this?!)
[Mycroft]
You'll be there if I am highhhh
[Lestrade speaking chidingly]
Um, no Sherlock
[Both]
It's eye love,
No more lies
[Lestrade]
And when I say, "Amazing, Sherl,"
It's all that it implies!
[Both]
It's eye love
And you are why.
At this last line they leaned close, finishing the song with exaggerated eyelash flutters a fraction of an inch from each others' faces. All part of the gag. Until Greg moved a hairsbreadth forward and touched his mouth to the elder Holmes'. Mycroft froze, uncertain what to make of this development. Surely, this wasn't scripted. A slight blush - alcohol or embarrassment, or maybe both - slowly creeping up his face.
On the opposite side of the room John stood rooted to his spot by the bar, too distracted to notice what had transpired at the very end. With a bit more than a healthy blush on his own cheeks, he remained there for several minutes, dumbstruck.
Humiliating. That's what it is. Was it so obvious to people? Was he really so transparent? Things he would never dare say or act on because, well, Sherlock isn't like that. However, finding out everyone could see right through his "I'm not gay" exclamations... Apparently, the one person who couldn't was the world's only consulting detective. That big brain of his just didn't bother with such trivial things. It seemed to be the one thing he had never deduced, and for that John was grateful. He had accepted the fact that this was just something he'd keep to himself. But now, this - this joke? This was public and mortifying and…
"Jawwwwn? JAWN!" Long fingers snapped in his face.
Turning, he saw no embarrassment on his inebriated flatmate's features. Instead, he saw… the twitch of a drunken smile. That smile. The one that was both adorable and indicated that he was about to do something a bit not good.
As John's own addled mind tried hopelessly to figure out what the big git was thinking, Sherlock's smile broke into a rumble of drunken laughter. Hardly able to pull himself out of his sudden fit of giggles, he pointed to the stage where an uncertain Greg and a frozen Mycroft were still standing.
His laugh finally breaking off, he yelled above the rowdy crowd, "Oh, do keep up Mikey! The dear detective there seems to wish a quick snog. Or does the idea of sex alarm you, big brother?" He added with a slight sneer.
He staggered somewhat as he stepped away from the bar, then two large hands grabbed both of John's and pulled hard.
"C'mon, Jawn! I think my idiot brother, though trying to embarrass me, has instead thoroughly embarrassed himself. I do believe it would be… um... something… OH… nice … it would be nice of us to rescue him!"
Being tugged relentlessly through the giggling crowd, John could only sputter in reply.
"Um. What? Sh'lock, what are you doing?"
The taller man snickered. "Do keep up doctor! The game is...um…"
"On," John sighed, resigning himself to whatever was coming.
"YES. On. The game is ON!"
As a slightly unsteady Sherlock finally managed to pull him to the front of the stage, John wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor. Or possibly to move out of the country altogether. But a snide outburst from his friend brought him back to the present.
"Not the clever one now, are you?"
His typical icy composure hopelessly ruptured, the elder Holmes simply stood there, staring and befuddled. Unblinking. Not even able to throw a quip back at his relentless little brother.
"Do pay attention Mycroft. You might just learn something." And with that, he yanked John toward him once more, one hand on the back of his head, fingers curled into John's hair awkwardly, pulling his blogger closer.
"What are you… Sher…"
The question was stifled by full pink lips pressing insistently on his. Kissing. Bloody hell. Sherlock bloody Holmes was kissing him… hard. In front of everyone. John was thrown totally off his guard for a moment; however, as his flatmate started to pull away, his sluggish thoughts finally began to catch up to his heart rate.
"Oi. Bloody hell, Sherlock" he said fondly, grabbing a handful of coat collar and dragging him back down, forgetting completely that they were surrounded by half of NSY, all giggling furiously by now. Lost in a moment he still didn't think was real.
It wasn't the best kiss. It was rough and hard and mostly closed mouthed, but somehow it was everything.
He gradually pulled away, and with a bit-not-good smile of his own, turned to the two other men still on stage and launched quite loudly into a new verse of their parody. Mockingly and off key, he sang, "Our love- it's more than in our eyes!"
After a few seconds of rapid blinking, Sherlock was tearing toward the exit, Belstaff practically knocking glasses from the edge of a billiard table as it swung violently behind him. A cellophane-wrapped packet was in his hand before he reached the pavement, and by the time John caught up, he was already stashing his lighter and inhaling a deep, shaky breath.
John, steadying himself on the wall of the pub, eyed his obviously panicked flatmate, unsure what had happened or how to even begin to approach him.
One more nervous exhale and Sherlock was crushing his cigarette beneath a freshly polished black shoe. His face was carefully hidden by his upturned collar, so that John could barely hear the tentative apology being issued behind a pale pink, fiercely bitten lower lip.
"I'm… sorry, John," he offered softly. "I only meant to embarrass my arse of a brother for making everyone laugh at us."
John fought back his own anxiety, tugging at the detective's coat sleeve, coaxing him to turn and meet his eye. The winter air had sobered him enough to enunciate clearly, though he had never before been less sure of finding the right words.
"Sherlock, no… it's… it's all good. It's… fine. Really," he stuttered through chattering teeth. "You don't have to -" His words cut off abruptly as stormcloud grey eyes finally found his.
"You're cold," Sherlock stated unnecessarily. In one rapid movement, he whipped off his scarf and wrapped it neatly around John's shoulders. Stepping back out of his space quickly, almost shyly, he once again lowered his head, only disheveled, snow-covered curls visible above the tall line of his collar. When he began to speak again, there was an undeniable wavering in his voice.
"John, there's something… I've meant to say always, and I never have… and since it's unlikely that by the time you're sober you'll want to speak to me again, I might as well say it now…"
The slamming of the pub door, metal reverberating against the brick wall, cut through the palpable tension in the air outside. A shockingly intoxicated member of the British government staggered out toward the road, followed by a much less inebriated and obviously worried DI.
"Oi! Mate. Easy! Let's get you in the car," Greg pleaded, attempting to right the stumbling man before he fell forward over the curb.
Trying rather unsuccessfully to regain some of his usual decorum, Mycroft smoothed his rumpled suit and responded with a curt slurring of words.
"I do... I do believe it would not be look... looked highly up... upon for a detective inspector to... to get into his vehicle while under infl… the influence of alcohol," he insisted, waving a dismissive hand at the panda car. Then, as if on cue, a familiar black stretch sedan rolled up immediately in front of the pair. "Please, Inspector. I do believe it is necess... um, proper, to assist your charge home. Especially since you are responsible for his current state."
Greg flushed crimson at the insinuation and mumbled, "Yea, 'course I should, it's only proper…"
Before he could duck into the car, the curve of an umbrella handle suddenly blocked his way. A surprisingly composed voice behind him stated, "I do believe I had forgotten to return something to you, Mr. Lestrade."
After flashing a taunting smile toward his brother, Mycroft closed in on the confused DI, forcing his back against the side of the vehicle. A leather-clad hand rose to stroke Greg's face as he pressed into his mouth aggressively, as if doing this not only for himself, but for Queen and Country. When they finally broke apart (which felt to John Watson like it took an embarrassingly long time coming), Greg looked thoroughly wrecked. Mycroft, as snide as ever despite the alcohol still coursing through his veins, turned casually toward his younger brother.
"I am the clever one. I do hope this little 'study in snogging' has taught you something, brother mine."
Placing one hand on Lestrade's back, he pushed the detective inspector into the backseat and climbed in not-quite-gracefully behind him, the mysterious vehicle disappearing into the night as silently and swiftly as it had arrived.
Alone again, and the snow had begun falling harder. Sherlock was putting out yet another cigarette, face still buried behind his upturned collar, looking for all the world like a scared child hiding under a blanket.
"Sherlock?" John ventured. "Sherlock, what do you mean after I'm sober - and for the record I am sober enough - I'll want to leave? Why would I want to leave? Especially after…" he waved his hand in the direction of the barroom door, "after that? Whatever that was, back there?"
The answering baritone was barely audible. "I kissed you John. In front of people. People who laughed. You were already embarrassed at that joke, and I made it worse to get back at m...my arsehole brother." He was shivering, though it was unclear whether from cold or anxiety. "I am sorry, John. I crossed a line, and I know… you have been quite clear you aren't gay."
John moved closer, slowly, afraid to spook an already nervous Sherlock, and rested a firm hand on his arm. "Hmm. How is it, with that big brain of yours, that you still manage to be a bloody idiot?" He put his other hand on his friend's right arm and began rubbing them up and down briskly, trying to warm him as the detective's shivering increased.
"John, I said I was sorry…"
"No. No, Sherlock. You don't get to do that. You don't get to apologize. You can't take that back. "
Sherlock dropped his eyes in defeat, but John wasn't finished.
"Not sure you noticed, you big crazy git, but I kissed you back in there. I wasn't just playing along, Sher. I wasn't in on the joke. I kissed you back because I wanted to. If you would turn off your mind for half a second you might just see something you missed. You might see how you got it wrong."
"How was I rrr...wrong, John? You aren't gay. Three Continents Watson and his string of women. You are obviously not gay."
"Yeah, well, maybe their little joke in there wasn't all that off the mark either," he answered softly, sliding his arms around Sherlock's slim waist until they were chest to chest, the heavy wool coat draping around both their bodies. John couldn't help but smirk at the sight of his best friend's eyes blown wide, the feeling of his heart hammering against both their chests, looking frozen in confusion and terror that he might still be misunderstanding.
The pressure of John's palms against his back compelled him to bend slightly, the difference in their heights becoming less of a hindrance as his blogger's face moved to within a fraction of his own. His John. Who smelled of beer and wool and a hint of tea and... home. His John. Whose body now pressed up against his, ghosting cold winter breath in his face. His John. Who he had never seen look at him this way before. Had he got it wrong? All this time, the one thing he never deduced. And now, suddenly, they were standing so close that each had almost become an extension of the other. Like they always had been... Oh, he had got it spectacularly wrong!
His thoughts were interrupted as a small, steady hand trailed up his back beneath the coat, coming to rest in his snow-covered hair. Determined fingers pushed their way into half frozen curls and began pulling, pulling him down.
John's voice was barely a whisper. "Let's do this right this time, yeah?"
Sherlock could only manage a quick nod before another hand grazed his cheekbone, and a thin set of lips collided with his own. This was not like before. Not a joke. Not rough, but not gentle. Questioning and full of unsaid things. A warm tongue flicked against his mouth, then darted away. Asking permission. And then there was more, so much more. Tongues and teeth and hands and bodies, no longer cold, tangled together in the soft glow of the streetlights. So little and so much. A small sound, a whimper he would deny ever making, escaped his mouth and vibrated into John's.
John focused all his energy on pouring everything into this moment. Every too long glance. Every accidental brush of hands. A year of unspoken moments he desperately needed to communicate through his actions.
When finally their lips parted, catching their breath, John moved away just enough to look into his friend's eyes.
"Sherlock?"
"Mmm."
"Sherlock, what you were saying before. Before Greg and Mycroft..."
"Please do not mention my brother's little display right now, Jawn," he whined softly.
"No, Sherlock. You were going to say something. You started to. Something you always meant to say but never have…what was it? Say it now. Please?"
"John…" Sherlock attempted, his cheeks flushed just enough to be more than the cold. "John, inside, you, um… added to their song. Reason makes me understand you were drunk, and possibly playing along to avoid embarrassment. However, the words you chose, 'Our love'..." He sighed, examining their footprints in the dusting of snow on the ground.
John followed his gaze, then grasped one of his hands, interlacing their fingers and smiling softly up at his flustered detective.
"Yes, Sher, I know what I said. What I did. What I want to know is what you tried to say, and why it would make you think I would leave you." John tightened his grip, knowing that, depending what came next, Sherlock might still be a flight risk. Panic was clearly visible in those hypnotic, heterochromatic eyes.
"John. Wha… what I meant to say, always, yet never have, for fear of losing the only friend I've ever had…"
John squeezed the hand he was holding and waited, his face showing all the patience he did not feel in that moment.
"John, you limped into my life, and though you may believe that I saved or fixed you in some way, I can assure you - you have it reversed. You became my friend. Not something I had expected of you, nor had I any idea why it was something you would choose to be. However, there was always something... more."
He pried his hand from John's and placed two of John's fingers in a familiar position upon his wrist. The rapid pulsing was immediately palpable.
He tilted John's face toward his until the shorter man was eye to eye with his own fully dilated pupils.
"You see and feel, doctor. What do you think it is I meant to say?"
"I can feel and see just fine," John whispered. "What I want is for you to answer me. In what even I can deduce will be three words."
"Wrong, John." A small, innocent kiss was placed in his hair. "There are more than three."
"Then say them. Please."
"John. My John."
The doctor's breath hitched in his throat at the possessive.
"You are my whole world. I would be so lost without my blogger. You have saved me in all the ways a person could be saved." His free hand met John's cheek as the panic in his eyes melted into something still timid, yet softer. "John Watson. I... I love you."
Falling silent, Sherlock ducked his head shyly, but found himself failing miserably at hiding his emotions with John still holding him so closely. The panic rose again in his chest. He had said it. He had said it and he couldn't take it back. Every wall, every bit of defense he had spent the past year fortifying had collapsed, everything he is or was, now open to his best friend - who had yet to do more than stare back at him with an expression he could not quite comprehend.
In an instant, the tension was broken by the rumbling arrival of the cab Sherlock had called as he escaped from the bar, which now felt several hours in the past. He strode toward the idling vehicle, grateful for the opportunity to collect himself.
Snapping out of his daze, John shook the snow from his hair and jogged to catch up, somewhat fearful that the mad detective would vanish into the stillness of London's winter night without him.
"John?" Sherlock turned back, long fingers gripping the door handle. "I... have a question. What exactly is 'eye love'?"
The innocence and ridiculousness of the question struck an unexpected chord. For a brief moment, John gave his dubious friend a half cocked smile, and then, without warning, he doubled over laughing. It was a full minute before he caught his breath, and he was still wiping tears away as he answered.
"Oh, Sherlock. Jesus. It's 'eye fucking.'" He broke into another fit of giggles at the look of sheer horror on his friend's face. "No, you git, not that! It's when two people are staring at each other so intensely with want or lust, it's like they're having sex with just a look."
"Oh," Sherlock replied thoughtfully. "Well in that case, maybe Gavin did get something right after all," he declared nervously, punctuating the statement with his signature wink.
John let out a long-suffering sigh. "Greg. Sherlock, his name is Greg."
The detective pulled open the door to the waiting cab, but paused at the continued sound of John's voice.
"And Sherlock..." He reached out, clasping the taller man's free hand in his, "he got quite a bit more right than just that."
"Well, yes, I suppose it is rather funny in retrospect, and the part about -"
"I love you too, Sherlock," he interrupted with a broad smile. "Now get in the damn cab before I freeze my arse off."
Sherlock giggled, then spent the drive home explaining exactly why that was not physically possible. ("I mean, really, Jawn, you are a medical doctor.")
One Year Later
He had just arrived, and after a quick nod to John across the room, he proceeded directly to the bar, desperate to eradicate the late January chill that had seeped into his bones.
"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" He demanded of the pompous, overdressed older man leaning back against the brass rail.
"I would be remiss in not attending the second annual event in honor of -"
"Oh shut it. It's not an anniversary party." He signaled for a whiskey, glanced at Mycroft, then gestured to the bartender to make it a double.
"No, well, I suppose you're right. Five weeks of wedded bliss," he paused, casting a derisive look at Sherlock, "hardly merits a dedicated celebration." The silver-haired man seated across from John at a table by the wall caught his eye, and an almost undetectable shift occurred in his posture. "Though I suppose, under the right circumstances, such a domestic arrangement might not be entirely disagreeable."
"Considering popping the question yourself, brother mine?" The detective sneered, though they were both aware of the lack of venom in his tone.
"Not that it's any of your business, but if I were, I could certainly think of a more suitable date for the nuptials than Christmas Eve. Quaint as that was."
Sherlock was about to retort that the date had been John's idea, but after a quick glance at Lestrade, he thought better of it. "Can I get you a drink, Mycroft?"
"Hmm, no. Some of us would prefer to keep their wits about them in public."
"Are you sure? Perhaps just… an iced tea, then?"
The elder Holmes perked up a bit at that. "Yes, well… I suppose an iced tea or two couldn't hurt. I'll be over with Greg," he nodded across the room, "and your spouse."
As soon as he was out of earshot, Sherlock placed the order.
"Oh, and little brother. Do see if they have any of those tiny pink umbrellas?"
"Of course, Mycroft." He hid a mischievous smirk behind his whiskey glass and surveyed the room. Who knows, boys, he thought, tonight may just turn out a mite more fun than you'd anticipated.