Sherlock had been up until three solving a particularly urgent and "difficult" case when he realised the answer had been staring them all in the face. "Of course, obvious, so obvious." He muttered to himself. He rolled his eyes and cursed Lestrade for making them go all the way to Yorkshire and rent a two-room suite for this. Especially seeing as it was this simple, when seen from the right perspective. Finally satisfied, he padded absent-mindedly to his room. He undressed with his eyes closed, sorting the information into his mind-palace, not even bothering to sit on the bed as he did so.

Suddenly, the room flooded with light. "Sherlock, what the hell do you think you're doing in my room?" Oh. He realised he was not in his room, but John's, a situation made especially awkward because he was only in his underwear. It didn't worry him, but he knew John was finding it uncomfortable to see him in just a pair of tight black briefs. He turned around and opened his eyes to see a very uncomfortable John, who was blushing and looking away. He sniggered a little. "Sorry, John, I seem to have confused our rooms." He said, feigning innocence. The doctor rolled his eyes and answered "Never mind, I've seen worse in the army." The detective smiled devilishly, and sat on the bed, teasing John by whispering "I'm sure you have," and leaning in to a distance he knew John would find distressing.

John was, as had been Sherlock's intention, feeling extremely weird. Although he was somewhat unnerved by his companion's oblivion as to personal space, he also liked it in a guilty-pleasure way. Nevertheless, he looked sternly at Sherlock and huffed. "Sherlock, you can go to your own room now!" He said impatiently. Sherlock took one look at him and plonked himself face-down on the bed. "Sherlock! Get off my bed, you wanker! I can't sleep anywhere else, the whole suite's full of... Evidence!" John whined. The detective murmured something sleepily which was muffled by the pillow. "For god's sake, speak properly." John couldn't help but laugh at his flatmate's childishness.

Sherlock lifted himself off the bed and leaned over John to turn out the light. As he dropped back onto the bed, he grabbed John's waist and fell with a soft thump, hugging him tightly. "I said, just sleep here." He mumbled, burying his face in John's hair. "Sherlock," John uttered shyly, "what is this?"

The detective thought about the question for a second and simply said "A hug."

"Yeah, I noticed, but why?" John asked. "Because that's what people do when they like each other, don't they?" Sherlock answered.

John blinked. In effect, he liked Sherlock, had done so for a while, but the thought of being corresponded hadn't really crossed his mind. Sherlock had always been his platonic love, an unreadable and perfect man. He just never thought he was good enough. He noticed he'd been quiet for a while now and looked up at the man that held him. Sherlock looked back down at him and frowned slightly, as he did when even his brilliant mind couldn't comprehend something.

"Am I making you... Uneasy?" He asked hesitantly. He had started to pull away, but John gripped him and said, quiet but somewhat eagerly, "No, absolutely not, I just... Well, I've liked you for ages, and I just... Didn't think you'd like me back." He snuggled closer to Sherlock, looking at the beautiful features he had so often admired from afar. The detective looked into his eyes, leaned down, and kissed him. It was sweet and shy, but lingering. When they pulled away, John smiled goofily and put his arm on Sherlock's neck. As he nuzzled into it, still grinning, he concluded that his flatmate's confusion had been the luckiest of mistakes.