It had been a few months since The Incident. And the Incident after that. And the one after that. They were around the flat, John on his laptop on the sofa and Sherlock concocting experiments in the kitchen. Christmas was only a few days away. Mrs. Hudson had been coming in frequently to help John set up decorations. Sherlock only helped if one of the other two couldn't reach.

Now, 221B looked like Christmas came home drunk and vomited joyous decorations everywhere. All the work that they'd done has become a disaster due to Sherlock's boredom. They had a case to work on, but he wasn't getting results quick enough and it was eating away at him. To be fair to him, it had been months.

His experiments weren't going as well as he hoped, so he dropped the vials on the table and went in to the other room for his violin.

"Sherlock," John started.

"Not now, John."

"You don't even know what I'm going to say!"

Yes, I do.

"You're going to ask me how I'm feeling."

"I was not!"

Liar.

"Yes, you were. You've noticed my growing irritation with not having anything new from the case."

"That wasn't what I was going to ask!"

Yes, it was.

"If you say so. What did you want to ask me, then?"

"Who composed that?"

"Locatelli."

"Never heard of him."

"Why would you have?"

"I don't know. Sherlock, I know that the waiting is frustrating, but you just have to-"

"John, if you tell me to be patient, you will regret it."

"Well, you do! It's been months! You've been sulking around in the flat, you're hardly eating - despite my attempts to make you, you've only taken one other case! And you solved it in 4 hours!"

"That's hardly my fault, John," Sherlock stopped playing the violin and stared out the window. "There's no new evidence! I need evidence! Another party was supposed to take place, and there were supposed to be more bodies. Yet, here we are with only one instance of it happening."

"So, you're upset that people haven't died to feed your addiction?"

"Our addictions, John. They may be different, but do not think you don't have one, as well."

"Oh, sure. You do it as an alternative to drugs, and I do it - why?"

"You're abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people."

Sherlock turned to John and walked over, sitting in the seat next to him.

"So, you're once again saying that I'm attracted to you?"

"The evidence is there. It's not my fault that you won't accept the result."

"Not gay, Sherlock."

"The multiple occasions that we had sex prove you wrong. Among many other factors."

John closed his laptop and crossed the room into the kitchen, seeing Sherlock's catastrophic mess.

"Really?" John asked, turning and looking at his child of a flatmate.

"Hm?" Sherlock hummed as if he hadn't a clue as John was talking about.

"The mess, Sherlock."

"Oh, right. It's fine, really. There's nothing harmful amongst all of that. Unless the yellow liquid has mixed with the red liquid." He raised an eyebrow.

John looked back into the kitchen. "There's some orange liquid in a beaker."

Sherlock got up quietly and swiftly moved to stand behind John.

"That isn't the one I am referring to," Sherlock murmured into John's ear.

"So there's a potentially dangerous chemical in here."

"On the contrary," Sherlock said, walking past John into the kitchen. He stood by the table and transferred the microscope to the counter. With a swift swing of his arm, he cleared everything off of the table.

"WHAT THE HELL, SHERLOCK?!"

"Easier to clean now."

"You've lost your mind."

"Not quite, the blood just isn't being primarily directed to my brain."

Sherlock crossed back across the kitchen, put his hands on John's cheeks and kissed him. John gave no protest. They moved together further into the kitchen and Sherlock bent a little and picked up John, sitting him on the table.

John slid further on the table, and Sherlock joined him, laying between John's legs. Sherlock nipped and kissed at John's neck. His hand moved down John's chest and to his waist, sliding underneath John's jumper and shirt. His hand ventured up and up, taking John's clothes with it, until Sherlock decided to just undress John's torso. He kissed down John's chest, slowly, making his way down and to his abdomen.

Their landlady must be a ghost, because they didn't hear her ascending the stairs, and they barely heard her when she spoke.

"Oh, dear."

Sherlock froze, lips still on John's now tense lower stomach. Their heads turned to look at the door, and Mrs. Hudson was standing there, one hand on her hip and the other on her face.

"Sorry! I should have knocked. I'll just-" She pointed down the stairs and left.

Sherlock turned his head to look at John, who had turned to look back at him. Smiles crept up on both of their faces, and they broke out in laughter. They climbed off of the table and walked back in to the sitting room, smiles still plastered on their faces.

"So, it's nearly Christmas," Sherlock said.

"Yes, it is. Have you gotten your shopping done yet?"

"I have."

"That's good." They sat in silence for a few seconds before John continued. "So, the other night when I was out with Quinn, she asked me to join her at a New Year's party. It'd be on the 30th, rather than on New Year's Eve, so I'll still be here with you for the actual event."

"Alright. Well, I hope you have a wonderful time."

"I wish you could go, too. But, even if you could, you wouldn't go."

"Of course I wouldn't go, there'd be people."

John smiled with half of his mouth.

"And who could possibly want to be around them?" John laughed.

They sat in their respective chairs, and just looked at each other.

"What kind of party will it be?" Sherlock asked, breaking the silence.

"I believe she said a masquerade."

"Do you have a mask yet?"

"No, I was going to go looking tomorrow."

"Mind if I join you?"

John froze, causing Sherlock to raise an eyebrow at him.

"You want to go shopping with me?"

"Problem?"

"No, just.. unusual."

Sherlock shrugged and steepled his hands, pressing his fingers against his lips. John seemed uneasy with the focus that Sherlock had on him.

"Why are you staring at me?"

"Trying to decide what kind of mask would be suitable for you."

John nodded and let Sherlock continue.

He narrowed his eyes at John's face, leaning his head from side to side.

"Should probably go for either a green or a purple."

"Wouldn't black be more-"

"No."

"Alright."

Sherlock's gaze didn't move from John.

His pupils are dilated slightly more than they were 5 minutes ago, accounting for the lighting of the room. The tremor of a pulse on his neck suggests his heart is beating rather quickly. He's stirring in his seat, adjusting his legs.

He's enjoying the scrutiny.

"Although, I quite prefer you in nothing. But, of course you already know that."

"Of course you do," John said, lowering his head.

"Lift your head back up, John. I did not say you could lower it."

John's head slowly lifted, his eyebrows arched.

"What?"

"Keep your head up until I say you can move."

Sherlock looked him over, and watched the pulse in his neck.

It's getting faster.

"I am quite glad you haven't decided to put your jumper back on. A very good decision."

His eyes scanned down John's torso, taking in every detail. As many times as he'd seen John's bare skin, he always found something new. This time, he noticed that John gets goosebumps when he's being looked over and watched.

"Definitely a green or purple mask for you. Maybe we can find you a purple mask that matches my shirt."

"Your purple shirt of sex?"

Sherlock knitted his eyebrows together.

"Is that what you call it?"

"It's what we all call it."

All?

"I see. You can move freely now, John."

John sighed and turned his head to Sherlock. They looked each other in the eye. Without breaking the gaze, John rose and crossed over to Sherlock's chair. He straddled the taller man's lap and kissed him quickly.

Sherlock's hand roamed John's back, up to The Scar.