"Give it back, John." Sherlock growled, lunging for his box of cigarettes.
"Nope." John dodged the outstretched hand and practically danced across the living room of 221B. "You said you wanted to quit, I'm just helping." He ducked under another swing of the detectives long arm.
"You are not helping anything. I said I MIGHT quit. That didn't mean today!" Sherlock threw himself over the coffee table and slammed into John full force.
The good doctor hit the floorboards with a thud, the box of nicotine and tar rolls sliding across the hardware and under the kitchen table. The two men locked eyes for a second before scrambling across the dusty floor for the box; each one trying to pin the other to the floor, while still making a break for the prize.
Sherlock almost had the cigarettes in his grip when he felt a massive weight ram into him. The inertia of the tackle sent both men barrel rolling into the couch, laughing loudly now at their little game. Sherlock landed on top, smiled coyly and made yet another wild jail break for his addiction. This time, he succeeded in getting the box in his hand.
But, John was right behind him and knocked the carton out of his hand, and knocking them both to the ground in the process. Dr. Watson fell down hard on top of his flatmate, their foreheads coming hard into contact. John didn't even register the pain, though. He was too distracted by the fact that, when they had landed, their lips had brushed and lighting had seemed to strike him.
They studied each other's faces silently for a moment. John could almost see Sherlock's brain short-circuiting behind his luminous eyes. The eyes that John watched so often, mesmerized by their crystalline colors and intelligence, and that were now drilling into his head as if to see what he was thinking. The hands that the doctor often examined, drinking in the creamy islands dotted with rivers, were now gripping his arms tightly. The two sets of lips that had caused the now present trouble were slightly open, and air was no longer passing, as both men held their breath and waited for the other to move.
Finally, John moved.
Straight down he went, seizing both his opportunity, and Sherlock's mouth. The detective didn't resist, only accepted the kiss like a desert wanderer accepts water. The lightning struck again. And again. Repeatedly sizzling up and down John's spine, until he felt dizzy and had to pull away.
There were no words. Just smiles, and understandings, and relief. Both were just happy that this accidental kiss wasn't the end of anything. But rather, the beginning.