Sherlock sat in 221B, his hands folded together. He was perched on his worn black chair.
"Bored," he said.
John was clattering around in the kitchen, making tea, as Sherlock quickly deduced. There was the telltale shake of tea bags, the crash of mugs banging together, the hiss of steam from the kettle.
"How are you bored? We just solved a case!" John replied, pouring scalding water into a mug and plopping the tea bags into it.
"Bored, bored, bored! How boring life can be!" Sherlock said.
John rolled his eyes.
"Why don't you watch telly?" John suggested, stirring the tea.
Sherlock scoffed.
"I need something to make me excited!" he said, closing his eyes. Maybe he should get some nicotine patches…
Suddenly, deft fingers were under his chin, pulling his head back. Sherlock's dark curls fell backward.
John pressed his lips to Sherlock's.
Sherlock's eyes went wide with surprise; John had done something completely out of the blue, something Sherlock didn't even have time to deduce.
"Chill," John murmured.
Sherlock woke in surprise, the pressure of John's lips against his own still there but dissipating quickly.
John wasn't there.
Sherlock was at the safe house, waiting for a time when he could return to London, when the threat of Moriarty was diminished.
Tears were choking Sherlock, something he wasn't used to. He put his face in hands, letting the tears go.
"John," he whispered, tears coursing down his cheeks.