Sherlock looked around, a bored expression on his face and a drink in his hands. He lifted the drink up to eye level to observe the contents. He deduced it as a strange, fruit-flavored type of vodka. He rolled his eyes. Why had he come to this party again? No head-in-the-fridge was worth this boredom!
He studied the people around him, people currently occupying Greg's sofa and chairs around the fireplace, chatting quite loudly about unspecified topics. He watched as John said something highly amusing and everybody laughed. Sherlock shook his head. He and John were as different as oxygen and mercury.
The conversation shifted, and John, seeing Sherlock sitting alone in the corner with a small vodka glass in his hand, stood up to go talk to him. Sherlock groaned inwardly. Oh, great, a pity chat. I love pity chats! He thought sarcastically to himself.
John crouched down near his chair. "Everything all right, Sherlock?"
Sherlock glared at him, despising John and the conversation they were about to have. "Of course everything's 'all right', John, why shouldn't it be?" he snapped angrily.
John looked taken aback. "Well, you're just…you're not…over there." he finished lamely, gesturing vaguely towards the small knot of people stretched out in front of Greg's fire.
"Yes, good deduction, John, well done." Sherlock said icily.
John raised an eyebrow. "Why not? You like to talk; all you have to do is go over there and…mingle."
Sherlock sighed impatiently. "John. You really should know by now that I do not 'mingle'."
John gave him a look. "Why are you so tetchy all of a sudden? Did I do something wrong?"
Sherlock glared at him. "Well, how am I supposed to know? I've barely seen you all night, John!"
John stopped for a moment, and then let out a sigh of realization. "Oh. So that's what this is all about. You want me to talk to you?"
Sherlock shook his head, thinking about how to explain this to John. "No, I…"
John broke in. "You want me to get you into the conversation?" he asked, looking confused.
Sherlock growled. "John, it's just that…"
John interrupted once more. "Wait, no, no, I know…you want to talk to me?"
Sherlock slammed his drink down on a side table. "Goddammit, John, I want you to pay attention to me!" the next words slipped out without him even thinking about them. "I'm highly attracted to you, and it's confused me so much that I don't know what I want!"
The room grew quiet as the group heard Sherlock's yelling. The silence stayed for more than five minutes, until Greg told a bad joke and everyone laughed and started talking again, leaving Sherlock to gauge John's reaction to this stunning news he had just, unfortunately, conveyed.
John stood stock still, a look of shock on his face. "What?" he whispered. "Sherlock…you're in love with me?"
Sherlock's hands gripped the arms of the chair, knuckles paper-white. "I didn't…I mean, I don't…that is to say, you are very…no, that's just…excuse me, please, John."
And with that Sherlock rose quickly and darted across the flat, towards Greg's bathroom, leaving one fruity vodka and a very shell-shocked John in his wake.
Sherlock slammed shut the door to the bathroom, breathing heavily. What had just happened? As his brain caught up with his mouth (and his heart) Sherlock swore a blue streak. Shit. He had just as good as told John he was in love with him. Silently cursing himself, Sherlock sat down in front of the toilet, next to the bathtub, to wait out the party.
Where would he go? He couldn't kick John out of Baker Street; Sherlock himself would have to leave. As much as he loathed to ask his brother for anything, maybe just this once wouldn't hurt.
Sherlock heard someone banging a fist on the door. "Occupied." he muttered, putting his head in his hands.
"Sherlock? Open up, Sherlock! I need to talk to you!"
Oh, God. It's John. John's standing on the other side of that door. Oh, God. What do I do now?
"Sherlock, are you all right? So help me, if you don't open this door right now, I will bust it down! Sherlock, open the damn door…"
Sherlock, in a flash, stood and opened the damn door.
And the next thing he knew he was being bowled over by a very real, very alive, very red army doctor. And after that, that army doctor had put his lips on Sherlock's and all Sherlock could feel was happiness. It was like drugs, a pleasant white noise in his head, filling him from head to toe. He could feel John's body lying on top of him, smell his cologne and his John scent, could feel the warmth coursing through both bodies, John's and his own. And finally, finally, after what felt like years and years of perfect, amazing bliss, they broke apart, John's blushing face inches from his own.
"I wanted to tell you, Sherlock, that I felt the same way," John said apologetically, "but I didn't know if words would really get the point across."
Sherlock looked up at John's dilated pupils and swollen lips. "Will…will you tell me again?"
John grinned. "Gladly," he said, and leaned back down to his consulting detective once more.