John sat by Sherlock's bedside for days, remembering the earlier days they had spent together. He thought about the first time they had met, the first time he had seen Sherlock deduce something, their first time at a crime scene. These were all precious memories, no matter how many times they had been repeated in the intervening years.

John remembered all the time he took to realize how dear that tall black frame was in the corner of his vision. He always thought Sherlock must have known from the start, but he fiercely denied it. Not like him though, denying something he knew.

There had been one night, back in 221b after a long and frustrating day, but a solved case, when Sherlock had collapsed on the couch next to John and flopped over, laying his head on John's lap. It was similar to the tantrums John had seen Sherlock throw in the past, but not quite the same. Probably because this time it wasn't John who had frustrated him, but who got to comfort him.

John ran his hand through the thick nest of dark curls, pulling knots apart with his fingers. Sherlock closed his eyes and nestled deeper into John's laugh. Sherlock had said something, made a joke. John had laughed, but he could no longer remember what had been said. They stayed on that couch for the next few hours, laughing and talking. Nothing had happened, per se, but there had been a subtle shift in their relationship. A comfort and a need that hadn't been there as much before.

Months passed and nothing happened. John wasn't sure enough of himself to make a move and Sherlock seemed too oblivious to these matters of humanity. John knew his feelings for Sherlock were no longer appropriate for a simple flat mate, even a good one, but he didn't really know what to do with them. He continued following Sherlock around, trying not to look too much like a lovesick puppy, but Sherlock noticed—he wasn't so widely sought for nothing.

John walked into the flat and set the shopping bags down on the table, moving to put the milk back in the fridge. As he was closing the door, he heard someone walking up behind him, softly, not wanting to be startling. Hands rested on his hips and long fingers wrapped around to press into his front, pulling him ever so slightly backward, into that tall black frame that had indeed become very dear.

Breath floated over John's ear as Sherlock leaned down and placed a soft kiss on John's shoulder. John remembered not being sure if he wanted to stiffen up and act confused or turn around and kiss Sherlock back. He knew the man could always spot an act, so he went for the latter option. He pulled away from Sherlock's grip on his hips for just a moment, turning and wrapping his arms around the taller man's neck. He tilted his head and pressed his mouth into Sherlock's, feeling the softness of his lips and the intensity of his passion, even in that first touch.

John also remembered their first fight. He didn't remember what it had been about, actually, but he remembered the shouting and he remembered storming out of the apartment, trying to think of the one thing he could do that would make Sherlock the maddest. In a moment, he knew. It was a simple choice really, he knew right where to go.

He walked through the door of the bar not really knowing what to expect, but if he had had expectations they certainly wouldn't have been anything like this. There were pulsing lights, that was a granted, but there were also two extremely tall drag queens with towering wigs and an almost naked man dancing seductively while wearing a—was that a Santa hat?

John shook his head and walked toward the bar.

"What can I get you, handsome?" The bartender had walked over and was now eyeing John with undisguised lust. You don't have to hide anything in a place like this, John thought.

"Just a whiskey—whatever you've got. Neat."

"Coming right up." And he walked away. John leaned against the bar and looked around the room. There were men all over, leaning against counters and sitting at tables, writhing their bodies together on the dance floor.

"I've never seen you in here before," A tall man in a suit sidled up next to the bar and put one hand on John's cheek. He was startled by the sudden contact, but wasn't this why he was here? To find someone else? To make Sherlock angry?

"I've never been here before." John responded and turned to accept his drink from the bartender.

"Open or closed?" The bartender said as John handed his card.

"Open, please." John was planning on staying here for a while, until Sherlock came and found him—which he knew he would.

"You're really cute," the man said as he leaned in a kissed John on the mouth. This was a little too much for John, who stumbled back and knocked his hip into the counter. "Jumpy!" and he laughed. "well, if you decide you want to dance, I'll be over there," He indicated a group of couches in the far corner of the room. John shot his whiskey in one go.

"Now," John said as he grabbed the man's hand and pulled him into the center of the pulsing crowd. Their bodies pressed together and John could feel the man's hips thrusting against him. It was very different, he remembered thinking, from feeling Sherlock against him. This man was drunk and responding only to generations of evolved sexual desire. Sherlock was always in control, every movement calculated.

But John pushed Sherlock out of his mind and wrapped his arms around the new man's waist, pulling him in, kissing him, feeling his hands on his ass, breathing him in and pushing Sherlock out.

The night went on and men kept buying John drinks—his blond hair, blue eyes, and easy smile made him quite the target—and pulling him onto the dance floor. He could feel himself slipping away, getting lost in the haze of booze, music, and men. He was kissed, touched, even bitten once judging by the marks of the next day.

He had no idea what time it was when he felt a hand on his shoulder. A steady and sure hand with long fingers. A familiar touch. Sherlock pushed away the short, dark haired man John had been dancing with for the moment, wrapped his hand around John's arm and lead him over to the bar.

"Does this man have a card over here?" He asked the bartender.

"Yes."

"Close it." The bartender turned to the register, closed out the tab, Sherlock signed the receipt, and then dragged John out onto the pavement. John was still moving back and forth to the music when Sherlock grabbed both his shoulders and looked into his eyes.

"What the hell were you trying to do? Prove a point? Get yourself killed?" John looked side to side and took a few minutes to think, collect his alcohol-soaked thoughts.

"Make you mad." He smiled in his victory. "Worked."

"Yes. It did. I'm mad. We're going home." Sherlock hailed a cab and they rode back to Baker Street in silence. Sherlock put John into their bed—they had dropped the pretense of separate rooms by this point—and sat in a chair in the corner, watching John sleep, guarding against vomit choking his idiotic lover.

John remembered the next morning being the worst hang over he'd ever had. Pounding head and body smelling like dirt, sex, and smoke. He got up and went into the bathroom for a shower. When he walked into the kitchen, Sherlock was already sitting at the table with a cup of coffee waiting for John.

"Thanks for finding me last night."

"You knew I would. You wouldn't have gone otherwise." John nodded.

"True. And I wanted you to be mad."

"I was. And I was wrong. But now—" Sherlock stood and walked to the other side of the room. "Now I can't stop thinking about you at that club" he spoke the word with such disdain "last night. All those other men. I'm supposed to be the one that touches you, John." He had walked back over and knelt down in front of John, putting his hand on his cheek like the first man in the bar last night. John hung his head.

"I know." He really was sorry. By the time he started to realize what he was doing, he was to drunk to stop any of it. "I wanted to be with you, but I was so mad at you!"

"I know. But god, John. Don't ever do that again." He had leaned forward and pressed his mouth against John's. Thankfully he had brushed his teeth so Sherlock couldn't taste all the others who had been there last night. Their lips pressed hard together and john put down his coffee cup and curled his fingers into Sherlock's hair.

"Never, never, never." He spoke between kissed placed on Sherlock's cheeks, nose, eyes, lips. And he meant it. "You are the only one I want to touch me, Sherlock." Sherlock put his head on John's lap. He was exhausted from looking for John all night. He had been to every gay bar or club within a reasonable range from their apartment, he knew John would have known exactly how to anger him.

Now, John thought, after so much time has passed, no one else has touched me. Not like Sherlock, not since Sherlock. Not since that night. How was he supposed to live without those long, thin fingers wrapped through his, those soft lips pressed against his. He looked at the prostrate Sherlock and prayed that soon he would touch John again.