The morning had been particularly painful.
Waking up still curled into the man he adored, all a comforting bundle and jumble of limbs and rumpled sheets felt like a dream, a fantasy, an alternate universe where John Watson clambered willing into bed with another man and Sherlock Holmes adored people. He wanted to lie there forever, well, at least until John woke up. But that would have been the worst idea. He figured the doctor was bound to over react and his presence wasn't going to improve things, no matter how at peace John looked snoring against his chest. So he'd wriggled gingerly out from underneath an forced himself not to look back as he headed for the kitchen.

He was cracking eggs by the time John came stomping and stumbling into the kitchen. His voice was still a little hoarse but it cut through the nervous air like the edge of a bowl through fragile egg shell.

"Sherlock, do you want to explain what the hell is going on?!"

Here we go.

Sherlock squared his shoulders and turned around. His flatmate was leaning on the opposite side of the table, clearly a bit more than slightly hung-over. He was fully dressed but he looked manic; a flight animal backed into the corner of the pen. His face was flushed with anger and confusion and fear, his hair still ruffled up from the night before. Oh god this was going to be a lot harder than Sherlock had anticipated. He tried to start, "I'm making break-"

"I just woke up in your bed." John cut across him, only a slight tremolo giving away the effort it was taking to stay matter of fact and calm. "And I don't remember anything that happened last night so I'm going to need you to explain."

Explain. If he was going to explain he'd need a story. While Sherlock's brain frantically searched for an alibi, his mouth tried to buy him some time. "Of course," he said, turning back to the toaster, "but are you sure you don't want-"

"Are you listening to me? I just woke up in your bed in my underwear!" John exploded.

A sharp intake of breath drew both their attentions to the doorway; they barely glimpsed the hem of a purple skirt whipping round the corner as the clacking of heels and Mrs Hudson's shocked, badly repressed giggles filled the hallway. John flushed furiously, and lowered his voice to continue. "I need you to tell me what I did-"

"You didn't do anything." the detective interrupted hastily. The very idea that John thought this was his fault was as absurd as it was upsetting. You're not to blame, you couldn't help it, I took advantage of you.

"Well... I need to know what happened then." his tone was a little lower now, but it still wavered dangerously as he said "please."

Sherlock started very slowly, choosing his words with upmost caution, tiptoeing around the truth like it was a creaking floorboard. "Well, we went out, you got drunk so we got a cab back here." that much was true anyway. "You went to the bathroom and got changed, I assumed you were going to sleep on the sofa but you, uh, didn't make it that far. You sort of, collapsed asleep..."

"I passed out?" John sounded more incredulous than horrified, Sherlock got the impression he hadn't been that drunk in a long time.

"Well no," Sherlock replied, "you were..." he paused, a fond memory stirring caused him to almost smile, "you were snoring." he had to stop himself adding 'it was endearing'. "And I didn't want to leave you lying in the hall so I..."

"You carried me into your bedroom?" John's voice dripped with scepticism.

"Yes."

He snorted. "What's wrong with the sofa?"

"My bed was closer."

"You carried me into your bed?" the disbelief still rang true in his tone, and honestly he was right - it was unusual and strange and beyond what most people would call platonic. But what was Sherlock supposed to say? This was the least incriminating, victim blaming, scarily attractive way he could think to spin the story.

"Yes." the taller man repeated.

"So you slept...?

"I didn't." the lie scalded his throat. I slept better than I have in weeks...

"Ok... I suppose that makes sense... Nothing happened then?"

"John what were you expecting to have happened?"

"I don't know, I just sort of panicked." His flatmate - that much could still truthfully be said of them, that they were, for the time being at least, flatmates - shrugged apologetically, it really looked as though Sherlock had got away with it. "Are you really making breakfast?"

It was difficult to keep the relief out of his voice. "Yes."

"You never make breakfast. Or food of any sort."

"Well I thought you might... panic."

Breakfast was still a tad frosty, but after that things returned to a state of normality. John went off to the clinic to 'pay for our bloody home', Sherlock visited the morgue at Bart's, popping into NSY as well to fill in some paperwork and sneer at the forensics department. The only deviation from the norm was his decision to go to the supermarket on his way home. His reasoning being that: one, he needed some more ice for the next time one of them got hurt; two, they were out of food anyway sine he'd used it all on breakfast; and three, it was guaranteed to get him back in John's good books.

The plastic handles dug into his palms as he took the stairs two at a time. He'd planned to march through the doorway and announce that Lestrade had just texted him but as he skipped onto the lower landing he saw the door was already ajar, his landlady's voice tumbling down the stairs towards him. He slowed, pausing a few steps from the door, to listen.

"So you two are alright now are you?" she said. There was a clinking of china, Sherlock assumed she was making tea.

"We're fine, everything's fine, why?" his flatmate was definitely more tetchy than before no matter what he said about being fine with it as long as 'nothing happened'.

"Well it just seemed like you were having a bit of an argument earlier..." scuffling footsteps and a scraping of plates into the food bin (did they have a food bin? He vaguely recalled John shouting at him for putting something 'the council would NOT class as food waste' in there...).

"We're fine."

"Well that's good, isn't it? I did think you seemed very angry with him considering... You know."

Oh no.

She'd seen. Of course, of course she had. The infuriating woman saw everything and of course she would have come up to check they were home safely, of course that was just his luck.

The taught silence proved it, he'd been well and truly rumbled. London's finest in crime fighting took the last few stairs to his own flat on tiptoe and made his way painstakingly slowly behind the door, hoping against hope that John wouldn't pick up on it.

He did.

"No..." the perplexity was clear in even that one syllable, the upwards inflection hanging in the air like a dissonant chord. "Considering what?"

Another pause. Sherlock crept even closer to push his eye against the gap, straining to hear any sound in the silence, see any signs that he might be safe. It was obvious now that both of them were confused; Mrs Hudson, of course, had no idea the true circumstances of what she'd seen. She had probably, and logically to credit her, assumed that it was a conscious consensual decision by both of them and her eye brow raised a fraction at the question. John was completely nonplussed, but he wasn't stupid and a foreboding comprehension was starting to appear in his face.

"Well," the older woman finally spoke, "considering you were the one who led him in there."

Oh no.

"What...?"

Shit.

"Oh, you just seemed a bit..."

"No, what did you mean I 'led him in there'? What happened?" and now John was standing up out of his chair and advancing on her and, while his voice was as expertly level as that morning, his eyes were wide with dawning understanding and fresh fear. And maybe it would just be easier if Sherlock opened the door now and tried to prevent the train wreck, but it looked as though he was too late. Or maybe he should go in and come clean, explain what had happened and accept the inevitable loss of his friend and half the rent. Or maybe he should just stay out in the hall forever and hope he eventually became part of the furniture.

"You were arguing about bedrooms or something weren't you? Well... I mean..." a pink tinge was creeping over her cheeks, she clearly felt uncomfortable talking about what she'd seen. "You led him into the bedroom, don't you think it's a little unfair to-"

"I did what?" the doctor's voice was slightly stronger this time, remnants of his captaincy straining to keep themselves concealed.

"You..."

"I can't have... I..."

At this point Sherlock's feet seemed to be acting of their own occurred. The rest of his body was still subscribing to the 'don't move and he'll forget you exist' strategy, and yet he was walking into the room in a sort of daze. He didn't know of he planned to join the conversation or just hope he looked as invisible as he wanted to and slip right past.

Of course, the latter wasn't an option. He was perfectly visible and perfectly in possession of all the information.

Both the confused people turned as he slipped through the doorway. "Did you know about this?" John asked quietly.

Maybe feigning innocence was the best thing, Sherlock didn't have anything else to say after all; there was no defence. "Know about what...?"

It was clear from the look on John's face that he wasn't buying it. He turned away, muttering frantically. "Oh my god. Of course you did, oh my god."

"Nothing hap-" Sherlock tried to start, lowering the shopping bags into the carpet.

"No. No, no, no Jesus Christ no..."

"We didn't-"

Clearly they had now reached some form of snapping point because John rounded on him and yelled "No don't give me that again! Fucking hell!"

Mrs Hudson squealed at the language and scurried from the room with a squawk of 'I'll leave you two alone...'

The silence resonated around them. It felt dense, heavy. like it would take incredible strength to shift, but it was short lived.

John broke it again, his voice was back the strained softness. Sherlock couldn't work out if this or the shouting scared him more. "I'm going to ask you what happened again and you're not going to lie to me." This, definitely this. Wild blue eyes bore straight into his own and he dropped his gaze to the threadbare carpet. "What happened?"

"I don't-"

"Christ will you just tell me?!" They had regressed back to yelling, louder this time.

It made Sherlock flinch. He didn't know what he was supposed to say, he didn't know how to say it; he didn't say anything.

He didn't have to look up to know that John was raising his eyes to the heavens. Less than five seconds before he started shouting the question again.

But by this time it was too much. The immense pressure of the lies had burned and scraped at Sherlock's insides for weeks and he couldn't fit anymore in there. There were no more excuses and, try as he might, the consulting detective was stuck for ideas. He couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't stand here any longer being yelled at. Of course it was his own fault and he'd known it would happen but he'd never thought it would be this awful. He felt like a cliff face, beaten mercilessly by wave after wave and the words came tumbling out of his mouth like loose, crumbling rocks: "You kissed me."

Silence. Again.

"What...?"

"You... while you were drunk..." he forced himself to look up, "you kissed me."

This time there was no pause; John's denial was a reflex response. "No." the word was a breath, the glare he had had turned to pure horror. He gripped his head in his hands, starting to pace across the living room, "no I can't have. That, I, this wasn't supposed... Oh fuck...!"

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but he didn't think it would get them anywhere, John wasn't listening.

"Jesus... You let me do that?!"

"Well I-"

The panic was well settled in now, it was going to take some time for John to calm down again and Sherlock felt nothing but guilt. The shorter man turned back to face his... his - well labels were going to be more complicated now anyway - and barely whispered "Did we-"

"No." No, but maybe we might have if it happened again... No, but maybe if I hadn't been so daunted it would have gone differently... No, but even though I've never considered it as something I'd want to do before I don't think I would have minded because it's you... "No we just... slept..."

From the relief that flooded into his features Sherlock could tell this been a huge factor in his emotional upset. John nodded to himself, as if in reassurance, before becoming anxious again as suddenly as he had been at ease. "Please tell me this has only happened once." He asked with a pleading tone of voice that forced Sherlock into remaining mute with renewed pangs of conscience.

Obviously his lack of answer was as good as one. "Oh my god! When?"

"New year's eve..." he mumbled.

"What?"

"New years-"

"My god! I can't believe... At midnight?"

Sherlock nodded.

"I did that And you let me do that? And you didn't tell me?" there it was. John had finally realised that this wasn't entirely his fault, the disbelief and denial had turned to anger. "Why didn't you stop me?! Why didn't you tell me?!

"Well, I-"

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me?!"

"Again, I-"

"Seriously I cannot think of a reason why you wouldn't-"

And again, despite the fact that his usually level, logical and leading brain was screaming at him not to, the corrosive anger was enough to make Sherlock blurt out an answer. "I thought you'd stop."

"What?"

He drew a deep, shuddering breath, and started again, slowly. "I didn't tell you because I knew you'd react like this," he wished this wasn't so difficult to put into words, he was struggling so much he sounded as if he were talking to a five year old. "I know you get defensive over your sexuality and I thought if you knew you'd stop drinking or, or be more careful. And I," he swallowed before continuing, trailing off at the end, "I uh, didn't want that to happen."

John was gaping at him, his mouth only slightly open but his eyes glassed over. Then he shook his head (which dispelled some of the unruliness the distress had given his hair) and coughed before he began to speak, hesitantly but clearly. "See... to me... that would mean you..." He was clearly struggling for a word to finish this phrase and settled for: "didn't mind." His sentences were as disjointed as Sherlock felt, these particular word formations as unfamiliar as had been the events they were discussing. John cleared his throat again, "that you were... that you wanted it to happen again..."

"Yes..."

"And that would mean that," again, the difficultly of find the right words was obvious. Each time John attempted to figure out how to get through his question, the unspoken endings hung like the moon in the daylight: clearly there, obvious and visible to anyone and everyone who looked up, but ignored because it's not supposed to be there, because it's unfamiliar. "That you..." like me? "You have..." feelings for me? "You're..." attracted to me?

One last question. One last pause to consider. One last chance to lie. But Sherlock didn't lie. "It would appear so."

"Oh." Was the only response he got.

"I wasn't going to tell you that either." There was yet another pause before he spoke again, his words slightly choked. "You can leave if you want."

This appeared to jerk John out of his latest state of shock. "Why would I leave?" he sounded genuinely concerned and took a couple of steps closer.

"Because you don't want that," Sherlock was confused now, why wouldn't John leave? "I ruined -"

"Sherlock I'm the one that did it!" the doctor said in an exasperated, almost defensive voice, taking another step forward.

"You were drunk, you has an excuse. Look, John I'm sorry that I didn't tell you and I'm sorry that I took advan-"

Sherlock was going to go on apologising but the words were barred from leaving his mouth by a cautious pressing of lips. The careful compression was there for barely longer than a second but it was enough for him to completely forget anything he was planning to say. His mind went so blissfully blank it was as if his rational consciousness had closed its doors and shutters, flipped the light switches, unplugged everything (except the fridge) and left him totally at the mercy of his senses. That now familiar warmth and pressure on his mouth, that now familiar burnt toast smell, those now familiar fingers slipping under his chin. He felt a sense of Deja-vu in that he was far too startled to do anything but melt into it.

Then they pulled apart again, still both close together, staring at each other with mutual 'I can't believe we just did that' looks: wide eyes and still parted mouths.

"There," John breathed, "no excuse that time."

woah cliff hanger, i thougt she said it would be three parts?!

yeah i kind of did a bad thing... this last chapter was so long i split it in two. but my last exam is tomorrow so i promise you wont have to wait long, and i did upload this a lil early right? so its ok?

anyway, please PLEASE tell me what you thought, good or bad. ita really helpful and encouraging to have feedback. and if you enjoyed this please spread it around, tell your friend, your mum, your bigoted grandparents, your gay uncle, anyone you like, it makes me feel loved :)

thanks guys, see you soon! xx