Seven Minutes

Sherlock and John are locked in a closet for seven minutes.

ONESHOT, PRELASH AND SLASH.

AN: Here's something for the weekend ;P I thought I'd go for something a little nicer after the angst muffin that was my last fic, and after seeing Teen Wolf again .. well ^^ Please enjoy :D

'Bored.'

Sherlock had retained his position in the armchair for a while, slumped with his head down like a sulking child. Waiting for time to pass, he simply chuntered to himself. To him, this was not a light hearted party at all; it was an excuse. An excuse to draw him away from what really mattered. The wide rooms of Inspector Lestrade's house were not empty, a gaggle of people he either didn't know or didn't care to get to know at every turn. All wearing happy faces.

How hateful.

Sensing a presence, Sherlock raised his head and, upon seeing his doctor friend, cut him a hateful look. 'How dare you leave me alone.'

'I was only over there, you could see me.'

'Why did you drag me here, John?'

John sighed, and took a moment to drain from the can of Carlsberg beer he held in his hand. 'Because we were invited.'

Sherlock's face twisted into a grimace, like he was sucking a lemon. 'By Sally.'

'Well, maybe she's making an effort to try and get along with you.'

There was a pause.

'Ridiculous.' He muttered.

'Your ridiculous. Sitting here in a mood. These people were kind enough to invite us to their work's do, Sherlock, so the least you could do is tryand have some fun.' John waved his finger at a small crowd of people that was forming behind him, facing the other way. 'Look, there's a party game going on. Why don't you get involved?'

'Dull. Boring.'

He seemed to have caught a touch of derision from standing there, having his patience tested. Calmly, John said. 'Sherlock Holmes, if you don't get up this second .. your violin's going out the window when we get home.'

'You wouldn't dare.'

'Army doctor. Afganistan. Seen hell.' John smirked. 'I wouldn't think twice.'

'Hell is nothing compared to what will happen if you - '

'I'm counting to three. One .. two... '

Looking briefly with a silent horror, Sherlock hesitated for a minute, not knowing whether he was jesting or not. But John was not known to be a liar, and Sherlock did treasure that violin. Scowling, he threw himself up from the chair. John smiled in satisfaction.

'The violin is safe another day.'

Loathingly, Sherlock bit back. 'Shut up. Let's just get this over and done with.'

It was a great blaze of idiocy, his ears filled with drunken hollaring. Sherlock shuddered, and drew his coat more closely around himself, watching the stupid folly. Bunches of people had gathered to be a part of this series of party games, ring leadered by Sally Donovan who was, in turn, rather intoxicated herself. She stood at the centre of the crowd, roaring sloppy instructions and pairing people off. Just then in fact, she had gotten Lestrade in with Scotland Yard's most mousey secretary.

'Alright everyone, shut up. Shut up. Listen!' She screeched, waving her hand in the air to signal their attentions. 'We're gonna play a little game now, some of ya might know it. Seven Minutes in Heaven!'

There were pleased roars and hooting laughter from the party guests as Sally side stepped away, revealing the opened door of a particularly tiny closet.

'Now, here's how we're gonna do this. I'll pick two names from this hat,' Her hand shot straight in the air, holding a top hat full of paper shreds. 'They'll go in here,' She nodded into the closet. 'And they can do whatever they like for seven minutes.' Winking once, she repeated. 'Anything.'

Sherlock quietly muttered. 'Primitive.'

'Alright .. first name is,' Sally's hand rummaged about for a moment or so, before drawing out a slip and announcing. 'John Watson!'

The man himself had been taken a swig from his beer at the time, and almost choked on it. Sherlock darkly chuckled, savouring his own plan backfiring on him. Before John could put up any sort of protest, Sally was back in the hat.

'Let's see who the doctor gets to ravage eh?' She was much quicker this time, dipping her hand in then out and when she read it, a slow, wicked relish came over her face. 'Oh freak? It's you! Sherlock Holmes!'

With that the flow of winning applause commenced; in which the current men stood like a silent pebbles. Immediately Sherlock looked awkwardly self conscious in such a wide presense, whereas John's blush deepened under the circumstances. When they did not willingly step forward, the crowd began to push and shove them to the front, all laughingly hooting and jeering. John was the first to stumble in front of Sally, to which he weakly argued.

'Sally, we don't.. c-can't you ... '

'Sorry, doctor.' The woman smirked. 'The hat has spoken.'

On that last note, Sally jostled John's shoulder and shoved him hard into the small space. Sherlock quickly followed, when launched by a random party-goer. Without a second to spare she slammed the door, and turned the key. Immensely proud of herself, she joined the mad cackling and raised her vodka in triumph.

A party guest laughingly commented. 'What are the odds of those two getting picked?'

This made Sally smirk. 'They weren't. Oh god the looks on their faces!'

'Ha, so this is a prank?'

'Er yeahh! Why do you think I even invited them?'

'You're treading on my foot!'

'Get your nose out of my face!'

'These bloody coats!'

The space, or lack of, made for a tight squeeze. There were several coats hanging from an overhead rail, and Sherlock was furiously pushing them around in some attempt to get them out of his face. John was busy mentally kicking himself. He had felt strangely embarrassed by Sally's excessive friendliness, but no suspicion had even crossed his mind. Supposedly he was just grateful she was keeping that acid tongue to herself. And now this. He would have sighed, but his chest was so tightly packed against Sherlock's he couldn't afford the room.

'Our names were never on those papers. That woman, that damn woman! She's out to humiliate us.' It seemed she was succeeding, Sherlock's cheeks flushing. 'I hope you know this is your fault, John!'

'My fault?'

'Yes. You and your stupid whimsies. Oh let's have fun, Sherlock. No harm in it, Sherlock!' He blasted. 'Are you have fun now, John?'

The commencement of his actions were slightly abrupt, and there John was a contrast. Ever the calm one, if a little rattled. 'What are you getting so upset about? We'll just stand here and talk until they let us out. We can talk, can't we?'

There was a brief pause, where Sherlock took a deep breath and seemingly agreed with John. A trifle more composed, he answered. 'Give me a seven minute topic, then.'

'Um .. did you turn the cooker off before we left?'

'Yes.'

'Locked the door?'

'Yes.'

From there an ungaingly quiet fell, John having quickly run out of conversation - in five seconds. He searched for something to fill the silence with, but Sherlock, scathingly, rolled his eyes. 'Apparently we can't talk.'

'Well, give me something to talk about.'

Sherlock, with perfect simplicity, replied. 'Afganistan. There's bound to be something you can chunter on about in that.'

'Why would you want to hear about that?'

'Why not? It'll kill time in the least.'

Calmly, but unprepared, John shrugged with mingled agreement and let his eyes wander up to Sherlock. 'Okay .. um, what do you want to know?'

Passively, Sherlock said the first thing that happened to come to mind with no real emotion in it. 'Hm, how many people you killed?'

'What, you think that's all I did?' John's mind, unbalanced on the subject, took a turn and he began his immediate defense. 'I didn't join the army just to kill people, Sherlock. And just so you know, I never directly killed anyone.'

Sherlock's brow clouded over, studying his friend with query. 'Enlighten me, then. What did you join the army for?'

John's aspect visable changed, thinking it through while a glow of assesment dying his features. Not even his therapist had asked him such a personal, yet basic, question. It hadn't been for the patriotic glory, or the greed, or even the thrill that came with aiming a weapon. In truth, it was the first time he had truly stopped to think. Why had he chosen to become a solider?

Possessed by a certain grave quality, he quietly began to speak. 'I suppose I had a death wish.'

He continued. 'I didn't have friends, never saw my family, and didn't have a penny to my name. It just .. seemed like a good idea, and if I died, then they'd say I died for queen and country. All that rubbish.' Sadly, he smiled. 'You know, sometimes I wonder what would've happened if Mike hadn't stopped me in the street.'

Sherlock smiled himself. 'Good old Stamford.'

'Yeah, good old Stamford.' John echoed reflectively, then sighed and bowed his head. Thumbing under his eyes where tears had snuck up on him. 'God. Sorry, you know I'm not like this.'

'No. It's .. fine.'

Sherlock had already folded the edge of his sleeve over his thumb, lifting John's face and dabbing at the dampened area underneith his sad, darkened eyes. There was little light in the small space, the only source coming from the crack between the door and the floor. Sherlock performed the action without any of the angerness or bitterness that he'd had at the beginning of the night, and gradually performed slower.

He could feel John staring at him, doe-eyed like an enchanted little boy. A look he had profoundly mastered. There was an interval of silence, as Sherlock cast his eyes onto that face. Vague in the darkness, but it seemed to heighten every charm. Nothing revived him so much, and he became aware of his hand. It streamed loosely from John's eye, to the round edge of his cheek. It rested and gently caressed, like it belonged there.

John - broad and calm, said gently. 'You changed my life, Sherlock.'

Sherlock purposely stopped to gaze, the colour of his eyes glittering as if cut in pure diamonds. With a smile so faint that he hardly caught it, he answered by folding his hand to the side of John's head and tentatively moving to kiss him. As their lips touched, John's body went tense, his hands still. It was something of a surprise, but he did not object. Rather, he accepted and caught himself up in the moment, parting his lips and returning the kiss. His hand curled up claw-like and caught itself in a tangle of Sherlock's hair. These forgotten sensations rose up once more out of the depths of his consciousness, and, for an instant, a wave of the old desire swept over his soul.

'John .. '

A breathless utterance from Sherlock, as he broke away and buried himself in the gentle curve of John's neck. Inhaling his warm scents, which sent a wild thrill of ecstacy through him and he abandoned himself with half-closed eyes to the sweetness of it.

They latched onto each other, holding and needing with memories full of passionate but sad desire, followed by a slow uplifting, faltering and tentative. Sherlock was not perfect, or all that charming when it came to some dealings, but in truth, he was all he needed. John drew in his lips and stared fixedly at the ceiling, fist clenched in Sherlock's hair and unaffectedly contented.

He then felt soft kisses dab his neck, and mewled like a newborn kitten.

'Do you think we should let them out now?'

Sally sighed, and consulted her watch. 'Yeah, probably. Don't want them getting too red-faced.'

Regarding the door with a slow, wicked smile, she turned the key and eased the door open, stepping out herself. With the door fully opened, the crowd drew a stunned silence - Sally included. Her face reddened at the sight of John, with his hands up Sherlock's shirt, and Sherlock, with his hair ruffled and unkempt. They both turned away from a passionate kiss they had been in the middle of, and stared blank-faced at their shocked audience.

Not a word was spoken, until a horrified Sally choked, 'Wh - how, what .. ?'

After exchanging complacent looks with Sherlock, John looked out at them and smirked, 'Do you mind?'

With that, he reached forward and closed the door again. Leaving the awe-struck crowd to stare at each other, and Sally to grow more red with humiliation.