A/N: Hello! My first Sherlock fic here, which is odd, but I didn't really think there was a fandom here for it. I thought wrong. So this was written a while ago, at the Season one finale actually. When I wrote this I hadn't watched Season 2 so excuse any wrong things. Also this is an alternate ending so it will be changed slightly. Moriarty does not return and his sniper flees, yadda yadda yadda. It's all in the small print. Or something.

Quiet Night

It was when he reached for the vest, that it happened.

The extraordinary threads intricately woven together in Sherlock Holmes' mind seemed to momentarily become slightly unwoven, coming into contact with other threads, mixing up his priorities and mixing him up for only a split second. It was like everything he had ever told himself, all the things he had repeated irritably to John over the past weeks, just disregarded themselves in his mind and detached themselves from rationality. His feelings took over instead; amplified feelings of guilt for getting John involved, worry and concern for how it would turn out and devastation caused by that defeated look in his partner's eyes. He had never seen it before, even when he was ranting and raving, even when he smouldered under his mask of calm. John Watson did not often give up and his career was a clear proof of the statement. But it seemed to Sherlock he had, and it rested on his own shoulders, not John's. That was what hurt him the most; the fact he had did this to his friend. It didn't just hurt, it fucking killed.

And what was this, his brain making associations of being friends with John? It had done so recently, succumbing to Mrs Hudson's reasoning that a friend is someone who puts up with you through everything and helps you when you need it as soon as you need it. Friendships in childhood, he had observed, were all about playing together. Anyone could be your friend if they passed you the ball. And seeing as friendship was not a priority to him he did not see much point in developing or altering the definition further. It was set in stone.

That was, until, John came along and had to do this thing to him, where he lost all sense of direction and thought and the only thing that plagued his mind was the good Doctor himself. Or the bad Doctor because, clearly, he was doing it on purpose. It was this new psychology process, something he had picked up when he was abroad. He was using it on Sherlock and looking for results. So Sherlock gave him none. But as time went on and John's intentions seemed nothing but pure, he had to face harsh reality that maybe thinking of John in the way he did was down to something else, something different.

He googled it, that night. How come I think of my partner often? He deleted it immediately, it sounded too off. That wasn't what he did...he only did that sometimes...

He tried again. My partner forces the release of adrenaline which reduces blood flow in my stomach. He stared at the screen for a few minutes. It wasn't right, still. None of it was right anyway. His feelings weren't right. There was no logic. It was pointless and stupid. It was ridiculous. He didn't need it in his life and he never would because he didn't feel like this, he wasn't supposed to and it was damn ridiculous. His frustration fell upon the keyboard, the side of his hand typing a string of letters and numbers and punctuation as he pounded the keys. He added, as an afterthought, I KEEP ENVISIONING MY PARTNER NAKED AND I DON'T WANT TO, HOW DO I TURN THIS OFF? Then he deleted it all painfully slowly. One more time. Symptoms of falling in love.

And that's what he thought it was. Not.

The symptoms matched but he knew better than anyone that there was more than just one possibility. Maybe his brain was just making a mockery of him because he worked it too hard. Maybe he was just overreacting. There were countless explanations for his strange behaviour. After all, it didn't change anything between them. They still shared lodging and they still solved cases. They were still friends.

And this friendship had lead them to this almost empty leisure centre beside this totally empty pool. His brain was doing it again; it was weaving the threads wrong. Because he felt sick and he felt afraid for John. He wasn't supposed to care about other people. Caring didn't help solve cases. That's what he had told John. That's what his brain had disregarded. His disgust at Moriarty wasn't even that surprising, but it worried him tot think that he actually cared about the idiot enough to despise him. That was another thing his brain did to its own accord.

When Moriarty left, he rushed to John to rip off the jacket. He hated it, that ugly thing that never seemed to lose his attention, even when he was looking at something else because he was aware of its presence and where it was and why it was there and he hated the damn thing. He hated it. He hated having to tear it off violently in the darkened building and slide it across the floor. He hated how at that moment, his brain began to unravel again and he warned it not to but it didn't listen, his central nervous system was laughing gleefully as it told his hands to brush up against John's chest, his fingers to curl around his jumper and take fistfuls of the material in his hands and their lips to come together briefly, the warm and familiar scent of the doctor sending a shiver down his spine.

As quickly as he had done it, he had pulled away. John stared at him in disbelief, his shock splashed across his face openly. John was not expecting it, he did not see a reason for it to happen. But to say he didn't like it wouldn't be entirely the truth, so he didn't say so. He did as he did with all things he did not want to face; he simply did not address it. He simply let Sherlock try and stammer a few words out, then give up. He watched silently as Sherlock took out his phone, calling for the police saying that Moriarty and his sniper had fled but there was still a bomb in the building that would have to be disposed of. And he pretended his knees did not buckle slightly when the taller man pressed his lips against John's.

Life resumed as normal over the next day and the day after that and the days to follow, except with no cases to solve. John busied himself getting shopping, going to work, fetching things for Mrs Hudson, reading the newspaper. But never seeing Sarah. Sherlock had already deduced that they had decided to end it but still remained friends, as John was not in a bad mood after work so clearly they were still aquaintances at least and nothing awkward went on. But then, maybe it did, because he was awkward all the time when he was home. Sherlock was too, except he was also angry at something. He ripped up his oxford pocket dictionary, proclaiming to no one in particular that he never needed it anyway and it was pointless. He danced on the table until it broke, smiling with satisfaction for two whole hours afterwards. He walked around in nothing but a robe for a while until he realised Mrs Hudson might not appreciate it, then he pulled on a pair of boxers and resumed his walking. He was irritated, frustrated and helpless all the while doing these things. At first Sherlock put his agitation down to this boredom, to this utter uselessness that came with sitting about the flat, but he knew he was just kidding himself. The real reason was the awkwardness that invaded every corner of the room when he and John were together, the silence that he had failed to break just as easily as he had the table.

Of course, they chatted. "You want tea, Sherlock?" "John, did you see the table?" But nothing really happened between them. It was all small talk and it was all pointless. Sherlock liked to skirt around the pointless things and John liked to avoid them entirely if possible. For a while, neither of them spoke of the big elephant that sat in the middle of the room. They watched John's crappy TV, they passed remarks about it that seemed to go unnoticed by the other party but in reality they were lavishing in the luxury of each other's words in case they didn't hear any more for another two hours. It was one evening in front of the television that Sherlock finally gave in to his stupid brain and angled himself slightly towards John, so that he looked interested but not eager, and began to talk hesitantly.

"...John. I just-" He could barely get three words out before he was interrupted by John, who was slouched towards the TV, his legs slightly parted and his hands behind his head, indicating he couldn't care less. Of course he could. Would he tell Sherlock that? No way.

"You're wrong," he said simply. Sherlock waited for him to elaborate, the noise of the set drowning out the awkwardness but not eliminating it entirely. John sighed. "I know what you're about to say and you're wrong. You're going to say you're sorry, you didn't mean to do it, it meant nothing. But that's a lie, isn't it? Am I right for once?" The last bit was slightly sarcastic and it stung a little, but neither of them acted as if it did.

"My answer to that question depends on your opinion of the answer," Sherlock replied dismissively, turning back to the television. John did not offer him any words in return. He turned his head to look at him, a steely glare fixed on his face, burning holes in the mop of dark hair and trying to meet the light eyes that just wouldn't look at him again. He turned his head back to the television. He sat there staring at it, pretending to be interested. He wasn't. The silence extended across the room and sent them back into the awkwardness and their avoidance of the topic. Sherlock Holmes kissed John Watson!

The next thing John knew, Sherlock had leaped across the table and sat in the only place he could find, and that happened to be on top of the doctor himself. John almost choked on the air he was breathing as his friend's weight landed on his legs. The proximity was a little too close for his liking, their eyes meeting and no escape to look away because Sherlock's face was the only thing he could see. He tried looking at his hair, his bone structure, his ears, but then his gaze always wandered back to his eyes that were always analysing him, always deducing something about him. In the split second it took Sherlock to land in his lap, he had braced himself for the awkwardness. But there was none. Instead, neither of them said anything, simply looked at every bump and line, memorised every dip and drop in each other's face. Sherlock's hands were placed gently on John's forearms and although he was not used to it he was comfortable with the situation. His feet were tucked in at either side of John's legs. He wanted to speak, but no words could amount the peace he felt at that moment. So instead he relished in the moment he had, feeling his friend's warmth through his shirt.

"Why'd she break up with you?" Sherlock eventually muttered the words, barely audible, but John heard them. They washed away the content feeling he experienced and brought back memories of the days gone past, drawing out a sigh from his slightly parted lips. Of course he already knew.

"Well, she gave me a list." He said it so casually that it even worried him that he didn't care all that much. "Firstly, I spent too much time solving puzzles with you. We didn't get on anymore. I was always too distracted. I kept just leaving her. She makes a fair point, but I can't say I care." It was the first truly honest and open thing John had said in days. It was nice to get it off his chest and it was nice to think that someone cared. To think, not to know. He was never sure anymore.

Sherlock nodded in understanding. He watched John's eyes shift again, relaxing, still taking in the man in front of him. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do next, but whatever his stupid brain concocted it ended up having him lean forward ever so slightly.

"I see," he murmured softly. His hands got something of a grip on John's forearms, a gentle one to steady him. "Well, she's missing out." He felt his friend's heart rate quickened, his breathing growing more eradicated. He couldn't blame John. He had never been this close to another person before himself and he was already shaking slightly. John pretended not to notice.

"What do you mean?" he questioned, genuinely confused. One minute they were friends, the next minute it was awkward, the next it was timeless staring at each other. Surely they hadn't progressed to something else. Sherlock leaned forward a bit more so that he was level with John's right ear, his lips almost touching it.

"Because," he whispered this time, taking in a long, deep breath and smiling to himself. He closed his eyes, trying to get the words out evenly without a mistake or a stammer. "I bet that if you had actually kissed back, you'd be a hell of a good kisser." John had to physically stop his mouth from falling open, a shiver wracking him for a few seconds. He knew, somewhere deep down, that the kiss had meant something - but he wasn't sure to whom - he or Sherlock? He had come to the conclusion it was himself. And if it was both of them, then..

Sherlock had came to the same conclusion as well. He pulled his head back slightly so they could make eye contact. They both knew then and there that the opinion of the answer to the question John had previously asked was that he approved of the kiss, he liked the kiss as much as the other had and it did mean something. It was almost overwhelming, the lover's relief he felt, and, looking at John in realisation and having the look mirrored back at him, he leaned over and kissed the spot on John's neck below the ear that had just been tickled by his warm breath. He felt John's strong arms around him, rubbing his back. For a second it all seemed so surreal, so bizarre. Then Sherlock realised that his crazy, slightly unwoven brain had did exactly what he wanted it to do.

The smile of satisfaction returned to his face as John cuddled him without a word. This was definitely better than the table.