A/N: Another in a series of stories recently published, but written when the first film debuted. This is a one-shot in which we find out what happened that night, after one of the most disastrous dinners any of us have ever seen. I don't own the characters or established plot, but I think you'll find this take to be entirely mine.

Watson practically flew into his room that night. It had taken hours to convince Mary that Holmes hadn't meant harm by what he'd said. He had told her that Holmes became restless in the evenings, that his lack of productive work had caused his outburst, that it had been completely out of character and he would be deeply sorry the next time they met. He had told her everything but the truth. There was a gentle squeak behind him as his door opened yet again, and there were soft footsteps behind him. Watson had thrown his coat off on his way in, and it lay across the floor like an admission of his state of mind. He knew this, but he could not bring himself to turn around to retrieve it. He'd have to look into Holmes's eyes if he turned, and that was unacceptable just now.

"You've had a bad night, haven't you?" His voice wasn't loud, but not notably soft, either. It was just above gentle, just below matter-of-fact. For Holmes, it was practically a verbal hug.

Watson tried to keep his voice low. If he admitted how angry he was, Holmes would find a way to turn the situation around on him. He had to be careful. "Bad? No, of course not. I'd say this evening was very enlightening. I learned something, tonight, Holmes. The whole of our friendship, our association, is, in your estimation, worth less than one bloody night of good behavior! Do I truly mean so little to you?" Oh, he'd let it slip, and there was no way to call it back. He turned to face Holmes; the damage had been done.

Holmes's face almost softened. "No, Watson, you misread the situation and you misread me. I should say you mean infinitely more to me than the opinion of one silly girl on whom you have pinned your hopes of happiness. I only wished to force you to see how little she understands men of our nature."

"No! Do not do that Holmes. We share no common nature, and Mary does make me happy. I will marry her, Holmes, and I will not allow you to stand in the way of that." And then he lost control of the situation.

"Of course not. Is that not the very reason behind your move? You've become happy here, happy with me, but you cannot allow your young lady friend to see that, to compare it to what she thinks to be the happiness you share with her. I image there are certain fundamental differences between the two, yes? Differences you have yet to admit to yourself, let alone to her. Because if you acknowledge the fact, even to yourself, that you are far more happy with me than you are when you are with this girl with whom you intend to spend the rest of your life, you may then have to admit to yourself that perhaps you should be spending your life with me, and, for some reason, this is intolerable to you. It is likely that you orchestrated our meeting for the very purpose of reinforcing within your mind my own short comings. You have known me for long enough, I think, to know what would happen tonight, and you wanted it to happen so you could have something to point to when you try to convince yourself late at night that you do not belong with me. Am I right, Doctor?"

There was something about, not the speech itself, but the pointed emphasis Holmes had used on his title that drove Watson further to anger. Somehow, through all his wrongdoing, Holmes had come out of this accusing him of something, treating him like any other suspect in one of their cases. No, Watson would not allow this to stand. "You do not get to speak to me as though I am one of your criminals. No longer. This is exactly why I have to leave, dammit!"

"Is it? Is it the way I speak to you? Or is it this?" Holmes grabbed Watson roughly by the wrist and dragged him the distance Watson had carefully been keeping between them. Their mouths locked so perfectly together, like the last pieces of a puzzle falling into place.

Watson knew he should struggle, should try to free himself, but something deep within him wouldn't allow him to so much as try. Something deep, something primal, had wanted this for so much, for so long, that he found himself responding to the heat and the hunger of Holmes's embrace. He felt something shift in his chest, in what he had to admit to himself was his heart, and he grabbed Holmes around the waist.

Before he knew what was happening, Holmes's deft fingers had removed his vest, tie and shirt, and he was being pushed toward his bed. Watson loosened the ascot around Holmes's throat and unfastened the top buttons of his shirt, running his hands through the opening and over the broad shoulders which had been covered until only a moment ago. He moaned as Holmes's tongue found that spot behind his ear, and he felt Holmes shudder as he bit playfully into the junction where neck met shoulder.

"Watson…we…" Holmes was beginning to pull back, beginning to over think and overanalyze, something Watson simply could not allow. He pulled Holmes flush against his body, felt a wonderful pressure pushing into his ever-tightening trousers.

"Sherlock," he started, addressing the man by his given name for the first time in ages, "I have wanted this since…the first time I saw you standing over a body. I have loved you since the first time you let me into your world, and I am so sorry I ever fought that. I want this. I want you. Stop thinking, stop talking, and let me have this."

Holmes's eyes, which Watson had always thought were brown, but was now surprised to find were, in fact, a deep, dark, brilliant green, smiled at him more than his mouth ever had. Watson felt the hands on the waist of his trousers, felt the pressure of a foot on the back of his knee, and then he saw only the ceiling.

And he had to admit it. He was happy.

Tell me what you think. Depending on interest, I may add to the story at some point.