They'd finally done it, John and Sherlock had finally kissed. John had spent the afternoon with his sister, and finally snapped after several hours worth of teasing, wheedling, and speculation. He'd come home, grabbed a rather perplexed Sherlock by the front of his shirt, and planted one on him.
Thankfully, Sherlock had (after the initial shock) reciprocated, and they'd spent the rest of the evening acquainting themselves with each other's mouths and hands and chests. John, out of concern for Sherlock getting overwhelmed, had kept things above the waist, but it was still more than either of them could hope for.
The next morning, John figured he should call Harry and let her know that she'd been right all along - if she found out later or through a third party, she'd be absolutely insufferable.
He dialled, and the answering grunt on the phone made it clear that she was either drunk already, or well on her way to being so.
"Morning, Harry. I just called to let you know you were right."
" 'Course I was." She pauses, clearly confused. " 'Bout what?"
"I kissed Sherlock last night. And, well..." John clears his throat. "He kissed me back."
John couldn't help but cringe as Harry's excited squeal was punctuated by the familiar smash and shatter of a dropped wine bottle.