Over the next few weeks, Sherlock personally commended his self-control. To an outsider, it may have seemed unimpressive that he had moved past the events of that night, but it wasn't that easy. John had woken agitated and sour on the sofa and it didn't take long at all for the world's only consulting detective to discern that he clearly had no idea what he had initiated at midnight. Sherlock spent the entire weekend wrestling with whether or not to tell him.
On the one hand, he knew John had the right to know and that he shouldn't withhold something this big. There was also the tiniest sliver of hopeful possibility that if John knew he wouldn't regret it, he wouldn't be disgusted at the very thought; Sherlock quickly dismissed this idea from his mind.
On the other hand, it wasn't worth the risk. Both of them had long ago decided - albeit wordlessly - that this was a friendship that was meant to last. It was a more special, stronger link than most people would ever form. It simply wasn't worth tarnishing with dopamine or romantic attachment.

So he stayed silent, suppressing shivers when they accidentally brushed against each other in cabs, mentally slapping his hand away when it seemed to inch towards John's with a mind of its own, trying not to flinch when someone mentioned New Year. But it was an impossible act to sustain, he was an addict at heart and it was becoming more regular for him to be lying awake at night replaying the kiss over and over. It was clear that he'd latched onto a new drug of choice and he didn't think he could abstain much longer...

Three weeks later he found himself in the familiar window booth at Angelo's, willing himself not to stare at his very definite just friend in the candle light. He heard the tiny but overpowering part of his brain say 'fuck it', sensed his mouth moving and his disembodied voice ordering two bottles of house red, saw John laughing and asking "are you trying to get me drunk?", felt the guilt prodding incessantly at his gut as his flatmate poured the first glasses.

I'm not a bad person, I'm not a bad person...

Sherlock wasn't exactly sure if his plot was even going to work, any real knowledge he had of reactions to alcohol were from observation over the last few months. He supposed part of him would have been relieved of John had just crashed on the sofa, it might have helped with the guilt. But that was a minuscule part of him berried very deep down, the rest of him was desperately hoping against hope that the outcome would be the same as new year's. He practically ached with the waiting.

He needn't have worried however, John was on him almost as soon as they were through the door (he'd barely hung his coat up and still had the scarf around his neck). And whilst this reaction to the alcohol was essentially the same, it was more different than he could possibly have guessed. As someone who had never even really thought about kissing before the events of new year's, Sherlock had made the - frankly ridiculous, he now understood - assumption that that was what all kisses were like. But this wasn't a hungry, grabby affair; it was remarkably gentle. Very soft, very slight planting of lips around and just on his own, one set of fingers curling loosely in his palm, the other cautiously brushing a curl out of his eyes. John still tasted like alcohol, but it was fainter, less intrusive on their moment. And besides, Sherlock had taken the precaution of ordering a wine he himself actually liked as well.

As one particular wayward curl was tucked behind his ear, they broke contact just for a second to simply stare. With John so close Sherlock had a perfect opportunity to observe. His gaze raked over the familiar features, but with a new perspective. He knew there was no chance of John remembering any of this, so he was at full liberty to take in every detail in a most non-platonic manner. He could finally have a chance to study without having to hide the admiration, and later adoration, from his eyes. He'd often heard Mrs Hudson rambling on about love and how one could tell from only a person's expressions; usually he just filtered her out but recently he'd been paying a lot more attention. Of course all his feelings were secret, but he couldn't help glancing at the mirror every so often just to check he wasn't looking at John 'like he's the whole world...'.

And John was staring back at him and maybe the doctor wouldn't be angry, maybe Sherlock could tell him. Were his eyes really that blue? How could the world's only consulting detective not have noticed before? He clearly had a lot more research to do in this area... Johns gaze flitted downwards towards to Sherlock's lips and his mouth parted slightly as he barely murmured his next words. "Can I sleep with you?"
"What?!" Sherlock's eyes were suddenly wide with surprise rather than dilation, his stomach constricted so much he could barely choke out the exclamation. He moved backwards so fast it probably looked like John had pulled out a gun. His butterflies were dying out and being replaced with a swarm of agitated moths.
He hadn't heard rightly, he couldn't have. Surely it would take even a person with horrifically low tolerance more than one and a half bottles of red wine to want to sleep with someone they knew only as their friend. Sherlock thought he had pretty good reasoning to be stunned, and as someone who had had their first kiss less than a month ago he also thought he had the right to be mildly terrified at the very suggestion.
John seemed to find his reaction amusing however, he laughed his high pitched breathless laugh and said exasperatedly "I mean in the same bed, you prat."

Oh. Oh. Same bed. The guilt and discomfort was washed over with yet another layer of fast-drying longing. Sharing a bed didn't have to be sexual and alarming, it could be comforting and... nice... Sherlock recalled how strangely safe he had felt with John's arms around him and couldn't help imagining how that feeling would be intensified if they both huddled together under his bed sheets...

His mouth was dry again - this whole thing was an odd mix of massively different and a sense of déjà vu - so he just nodded. He must have still looked as if he were being held to ransom because John was rolling his eyes. He reached across and closed his fingers around the scarf, using it to pull Sherlock back towards him and lock their lips again. The materiel started to rub on the back of the detective's neck and he realised he was being lead. Lead. By the neck. Into a bedroom. By John Watson. Jesus, what the hell was going on.

It wasn't unpleasant though, which Sherlock discovered mainly by his disappointment when the short fingers vanished (he dearly hoped he imagined making that pathetic whining noise). But his disappointment was swiftly vanished by a dazed stupor when he noticed why John had let go of him. The doctor was hurriedly, and rather clumsily, yanking his jeans off and pulling his jumper over his head.

Sherlock's mouth had fallen open but he honestly wouldn't have been surprised if a witness had sworn his eyes were wider. He couldn't help but stare, drinking in the sight. His gaze was lapping up every last detail, gulping down every piece of new information he could gather. He felt an overwhelming desire to know every inch of the body he really shouldn't be looking at with such intent. To catalogue, to map out all the little things. He'd already started taking his mental notes with the odd square of freckles on John's right forearm when the blond was back in his personal space. Small, nimble fingers closed around his scarf again and pulled the knot loose.
"There," John grinned triumphantly, dropping the cashmere onto the floor, "that's about even." he chuckled at his own wit.
"I don't sleep like this, contrary to popular belief I am not a vampire; I do own pyjamas." in an ideal world (not that this was too far from it) Sherlock would have turned around and gone to the wardrobe immediately to illustrate this, but he was finding it difficult to tear himself away. John rolled his eyes and reached for his own discarded shirt.
"There," he announced again, "now you have two sets of pyjamas." he stood on tiptoe briefly to plant a kiss on the taller man's jawline before flopping backwards onto the bed. When Sherlock still didn't move he sighed and grabbed a pillow, pulling it across his face with a slight giggle. "I'm not looking, promise."

Sherlock couldn't remember ever getting changed faster or with less grace. He wrestled on his regular old t-shirt and wore John's over the top; it was too small really but he couldn't have cared less. It was the symbolism of it more than anything. It was a caring, friendly, romantic gesture of course, but the possessive undertones were there and it made him shudder with the realisation that he had been claimed. He breathed deeply, partially to try and calm himself down and partially to breath it in and savour everything he could before it was too late and...

God it smelt like him.

The comfort and familiarity of the smell contrasting with the new sensation of having it quite so close to him, having it touching his bare skin was what finally drove Sherlock to crawl cautiously onto the bed.
"Okay" he said, not entirely sure why he'd chosen that word and instantly regretting it.
John dropped the pillow and sighed. But not in exasperation or mock annoyance, with a sort of relieved satisfaction. "Has anyone ever told you you're bloody gorgeous?" he asked.
Sherlock was too taken aback to answer. He felt himself going red and god he was practically pedestrian.
He was still recovering from the shock of the compliment when he realised the shorter man was clambering on top of him. There were legs straddling his hipbones and hands resting protectively on his stomach and toes curling into the fabric of his pyjamas and for some reason he wasn't panicking. He'd looked down instinctively but as the hands started to inch their way towards the hem of his t-shirt he closed his eyes.

John's fingers curled and un-curled around the edge of the materiel, like some sort of athlete preparing for a trial. When they finally braved the underside however, Sherlock decided this metaphor wasn't appropriate. Not unless the athlete was some form of dancer, a figure skater maybe - people always said his skin was cold. Finger tips barely brushed across his stomach, the distance between the two men was so little that Sherlock's senses were heightened. He would have sworn he could feel each ridge, each calloused tip, each minute scratch of a nail. The well-practiced hands were moving now, slowly making their way up his rib cage. They moved so cautiously it was as if John were checking every one for damage. Sherlock supposed it was a doctor thing; he didn't mind at all.

And then there were lips as well, on the side of his face, his earlobe, his jawline, his neck, his collar bones. His eyes flew open with the sudden change; they were instantly drawn back to his previous efforts to observe everything they could about the man now on top of him (it felt unexpectedly good to be able to say that...).

"Why d'you wear your shirts inside out?" John breathed.

"The stitching irritates my skin." Sherlock was trying to keep his voice level and his answer rational but it wasn't easy.
He couldn't see but he felt the smile against his exposed throat. "Does this irritate your skin?" teeth skimmed easily just below his Adams apple, hardly scraping, hardly touching. Unbelievably gentle for such an intimate and domineering act. Sherlock shuddered. Was that supposed to happen? Did people actually shudder with pleasure? That was probably the third or fourth time it had happened, was it normal? John didn't seem to find the reaction atypical or off-putting in any way, he raised his head so they were face to face again and grinned.

Sherlock met his gaze and swallowed hard; it was really very difficult to remember he was the one taking advantage here when he was looking at up at John at this angle. John, with his hair ruffled and his face flushed and a gleam in his eye that usually only appeared after a particularly great arrest. John, who was giving Sherlock so many new experiences that the man had never even considered that he might enjoy and not realising quite what a revelation he was. John, who was drawing closer to continue said experiences.

And suddenly the urge to do something other than lie there overcame Sherlock and he was kissing back and why hadn't he done this before? He sat up a little, throwing more force into it. A memory of a tongue running swiftly over his lower lip surfaced; he mimicked the action now and reaped the benefits of all new access and the taste of a barely audible moan. He tested the waters a little further, flicking his tongue a fraction upwards and jumping at the almost electric shock. The rich, fruity, slightly bitter taste of the wine was still present but he barely even noticed it now. He noticed the physical reactions: splayed fingers on his collar bone, a low, contented purring sound, the heat gathering just below his hipbones...

Shit.

He stopped as instantaneously as he'd begun, lying back down on the pillow and screwing up his eyes. He started to count slowly to ten, but only reach six before John rolled off him and lay down so they were side by side. A lone finger stroked gently down the side of his face and across his jaw, turning his head to meet a pair of equally gentle lips.

Sherlock opened his eyes as they broke off again, sighing as he let his eyes shamelessly search the face in front of him. This angle really was another story. Lying with their heads the same height on the pillow, nose tips slightly bumping, they were equals, to anyone else it would have appeared totally consensual without even a hint of moral ambiguity. But that just wasn't the case and sherlock couldn't fool himself anymore: John was drunk. He didn't know what he was doing, he wouldn't never have done it sober and he wasn't going to remember it in the morning. These facts were fairly easy to forget when he was the one doing all the kissing, but came barrelling back like a freight train when he was curled up in the sheets with a bashful smile and drooping, fluttering eyelids looking quite so vulnerable.

"I'm a terrible person." Sherlock said.

The blond snorted a laugh, "Yeah, I've never noticed." he replied sarcastically, then raised his eyes to the heavens and put on an overly dramatic serious voice. "Oh alright, go on then. Why are you a terrible person?"
"Because you're not going to remember any of this tomorrow."
John looked confused at this sudden change of tone, clearly his wine soaked brain hadn't twigged it wasn't all a joke. His nose scrunched up as he readjusted himself on the pillow. "Well that doesn't seem very fair, does it?" He said, still light-heartedly.
"No," Sherlock agreed, speaking more to himself, "no it doesn't."
"Hmm," John wasn't really listening any more, he burrowed further into the sheets until he came to rest with his head tucked under the taller man's chin. "I'm tiered."
"Go to sleep then."
That made him laugh again, the sort of silent laugh that's really just an expulsion of air. "Night," he mumbled.
"Goodnight." Sherlock answered. He allowed himself one final guilty pleasure of wrapping his arm protectively around johns shoulders and pulling the blond closer. He'd deal with the morality issues in the morning. He took one last look before he closed his eyes, knowing that he'd almost definitely never see this again, and drifted soundlessly into the deepest and calmest sleep he'd had in weeks.

Hey again everyone, wow I stuck to my deadline that's a first...

I hope you're enjoying this, please PLEASE give me your feedback, because this got more popular than I thought it would in like a fortnight and I want to know what you all think. Also please rec this to other people if you like it, it really helps me out. Tell your grandma idgaf

You might know we're entering exam season in the UK now, so the last part of this is going to be uploaded once their all done, some time at the end of June, sorry! Good luck all of you taking exams xx