"I guess my brain just short circuited…"

This was John's lame apology for doing absolutely NOTHING to help Sherlock out of a very awkward situation involving Molly Hopper's attempts to engage in a sexual relationship with him. She had come onto him very physically this time. The consultant detective called her at a very late hour of the night, asking her to open the morgue and the lab. He was very interested in a mutated virus found in the corpse of the victim of the last murder case Lestrad had assigned to him. He lost track of how many minutes or even hours he had been looking through the lenses trying to understand the virus's odd behavior. When he was satisfied with the amount of data he stored in a mental file, placed into a mental box, in a mental room is his mind palace, he finally turned away from the instrument only to meet Molly's face, no more than a breath away from his'.

At that exact moment, the door opened and he shot a tentative glance at the way-too-well-known figure standing in the doorway. He had texted John, who was in a bar with some old friends from med school, and asked him to come to the lab once his useless ritual of socializing was finished. He came just in time to save Sherlock from what was about to come. But he didn't. He didn't move at all and just let Molly join her lips with Sherlock's. The brunette stayed still and waited for the pathologist to give up, whisper in a low and embarrassed voice something similar to "worth the shot" and resign to the work she decided do advance since she was in the lab anyway. Sherlock stood up, thanked and said goodbye to no one in particular and turned to face Watson, who could be mistaken by a statue strangely placed in the door of a morgue's lab. He waved a hand in front of the short blond man to awake him from the trance he seemed to be in and signaled for him to follow, which he promptly did.

In the way out of the facility Sherlock reprimanded the doctor for his lack of attitude and the answer he got was absurd, to say the least. The consultant detective sighed heavily, exasperated.

"Oh, come on John! The human brain does not run on electric energy, therefore it is impossible for it to short circuit! You should know that, since you're a doctor. I'm very disappointed."

John usually would laugh at that statement. By this time he should know better than to use such common expressions to communicate with Sherlock. But the thing was, he just got himself involved in a bar fight in which he had no desire to take part. When Mike Stamford said it would be a of reunion of some ex-colleagues of St. Barts med school, he thought it would be just one or two of the guys, but actually a lot of them came. Even the ones John despised for being shallow and plain idiotic (he was spending too much time with Sherlock). It was one of those who started the fight. He was beyond drunk and got really offended because some random bloke spilled his drink over his expensive shoes. Shallow indeed. Punches started to fly and John tried to escape the commotion, but he got hit in his stomach by someone. It didn't hurt, really, but it made John very angry to be in the middle of someone else's mess and receive a punch totally uncalled for. Without saying goodbye, he stormed off the bar and headed to the morgue hopping whatever Sherlock was digging into there would distract him from the atrocious evening.

When he got to the morgue's lab and opened the door, the sight he caught was unexpected. Sherlock was sitting down, looking at a very serious Molly Hopper with confused eyes. She was leaning in and eventually their lips touched, but didn't move. John froze. He knew there was nothing going on between those two except for a very platonic love on the pathologist's part, but seeing someone doing what he very much desired to do with Sherlock was shocking. So, his brain short circuited with the amount of information spiraling inside his head and he did nothing. His mind travelled to light years away and the next thing he knew was that Sherlock's hand was going from the left to the right in front of his eyes. Still not thinking right, he followed the brunette out and without much thought, answered honestly to his questions. Hence the fault of using common language. Sherlock, of course, made his witty reply and the least of John's patience flew out of an hypothetic window.

He knew Sherlock liked him. He read all the signs. It was a fact that the Consultant Detective didn't understand emotion, but that didn't mean the he doesn't feel them or react according to them unconsciously. John saw the tender eyes, the devotion, the yearning. He noticed that the touching increased, the looks lingered, the time spent away from each other reduced to almost none. It was obvious that there was jealousy when John checked out the chicks in the establishments they went, that there was desire when John walked purposely shitless around the flat. It was a rare occasion, but John knew something Sherlock didn't: they had fallen in love for each other. But this territory was knew to Sherlock and it would take time for him to understand all of this. So, John had his mind set on waiting. He was sure the time would come and he wasn't in a hush. For all he cared, he had the rest of their lives to be at Sherlock's side, there was no need to take unnecessary risks bringing the obvious truth to the surface in a shocking way. But in that particular moment of that particular night, his angry state blocked all the previous considerations he made.

John held Sherlock's arm, making him stop violently. When the brunette was about to complain about the rudeness of that act, he crashed their lips together, tangling one of his hand in the black curls of Sherlock's hair and placing the other in Sherlock's small back, bringing him impossibly close and fitting the slim body completely into his ambrace.

Sherlock was baffled. What did they teach in medical school? How could John think that the human brain could short-circuit? It was almost outrageous!

While his train of though was analyzing the quality of med schools around the country, he felt his arm being pulled. When he turned to John, ready to ask what had possessed him to be so brute so suddenly, he felt a shiver run down his spine. For a millisecond before the doctor's next movement, Sherlock saw a very unusual expression in his face. It was a mixture of anger, impatience, anxiety, determination and… desire. If Sherlock was familiar with the concept of sexiness, he would've surely characterized that expression as dangerously sexy. But at that moment, he only processed the dangerous part and refrained from saying anything, closing his eyes and expecting to feel the punch that was sure to come. It didn't, though. What came next was far more surprising. He felt something crashing against his lips, something soft and wet. He knew immediately that it was John's lips. Despite the overall violence of the display John was making, the lips over his' were gentle and sweet. The hand that he felt grabbing his hair didn't pulled, just firmly grasped his curls and held them in a very possessive manner. Then came the hand on his back pulling him softly against the impressively heated body of Doctor John Watson. John was smaller in height, but was broader then Sherlock and very very solid. He could feel the muscles under the fabric of their clothes. He was breathless.

Sherlock tried to process what was happening. John was kissing him fiercely, but tenderly at the same time. He was holding Sherlock close, making their bodies touch everywhere possible and he was unmistakably claiming. The Consultant Detective couldn't describe what he was feeling, but he knew that his heart was beating faster, his body was consumed by an odd heat and his brain… had just stopped. There was no way to rationalize the way John's tongue was snaking over his lips, asking for entrance. It was not consciously that he let him, parting his lips and feeling the soft and wet muscle penetrate his mouth, rub against his own, tangle with it. It was a foreign feeling, but it was good, very good. He felt waves of pleasure travelling his body and colliding in his groin area. His legs weakened, but the strong arm circling his waist supported him and kept him from falling.

John explored Sherlock's mouth avidly, playing, discovering, feeling. The brunette didn't respond, probably because he didn't know exactly what to do in such unimagined situation. But he didn't reject him either. He gave him space and let John do his thing, just enjoying immensely and irrationally. When they finally parted, the doctor licked his lips. If he was aroused before, the deep shade of red in Sherlock's cheeks made him rock hard. The taller man was confused, clearly aroused and very embarrassed. John wanted to savor him right there, but he had already crossed the line with the kiss and he wasn't going farther. Not tonight, at least. But judging by his partner reaction, it would happen sooner than he had thought. But for now, John settled with making his point.

"Do you understand the concept of brain short circuit now, Sherlock?" he whispered the question with a low and husky voice, directly into Sherlock's ears, and felt the other man's skin crawl. Sherlock held John's arms as if to keep himself from falling once more and said breathlessly.

"How should I know? My brain is not functioning well right now." This answer earned a warm and a little mischievous smile from the doctor. This would be an interesting week...

THE END

I apologize in advance for any mistakes. English is not my first language and I am not used to writting long texts in this idiom...