A/N: the non-text part of the story got away from me a bit, but I like how it ended up because it goes somewhere that I didn't expect it to. Thanks for reading!

You seemed like you actually enjoyed yourself at the pub. Maybe you are human.

-JW

The only part I found amusing was your performance. You were so good that they may want to book you again.

-SH

You're such a dick.

-JW

Too soon?

-SH

[The previous night was John's birthday, and he had convinced Sherlock to go have drinks with him. Early in the night he met a beautiful woman that he seemed to be hitting it off with. Then she recognized Sherlock from the blog and walked out, stating loudly that she "didn't date other people's boyfriends." John drank more than he normally would have out of frustration, and ended up more plastered than he'd been in decades. He wasn't much of a drinker, and his tolerance was particularly low, being such a small man.

It wasn't a pretty sight. Climbing up on the bar, singing much worse than usual, and saying uncomfortably intimate things were involved.]

I guess I should thank you.

-JW

Why?

-SH

For dragging my arse home when I started trying to take my clothes off.

-JW

I only did what you would have done if I was an idiot.

-SH

Did I do anything really embarrassing that I don't already know about? Be honest.

-JW

[Sherlock takes a while to decide on his answer. He typed "When we got home…" but didn't continue. He reflected back to John sloped over his shoulders mumbling before Sherlock unceremoniously plopped him onto his bed and popped his shoes off. As he was about to walk away, John clung onto him and said that he didn't care anymore if people thought they were a couple because Sherlock was the greatest man he'd ever known.

Sherlock blinked several times, speechless for once. Eventually, he nodded curtly, said "Likewise," and shut the door behind him.

That was not the end of the night, though. Half an hour later Sherlock was trying to concentrate on a case when he heard painful screams coming from John's bedroom. He ran up and threw open the door only to find John alone, on his knees, with his eyes open but not seeing the room around him. It unnerved Sherlock to see his laid back friend in the midst of a war flashback, his muscles tense and rigid, his face red and contorted, his voice hoarse, and mostly incoherent.

Sherlock had never seen this happen before, and he figured it was a very valid reason that John did not get drunk very often. He considered getting Ms. Hudson to comfort him, but as he crouched down to examine John closer, he leapt back, narrowly missing the swing John took at him (he took note of how quick the soldier's reflexes were, even in an inebriated state). If John's mind was in a threatening memory, then getting Ms. Hudson was certainly out of the question.

Seeing no alternative- he couldn't concentrate on his work with John like this- he began speaking to John in the calmest voice he could manage, crouching down very slowly while he tried to establish eye contact.

"John, you're fine. You're at the flat. It's just you and I here. It's Sherlock."

"GET AWAY!" John roared.

Sherlock backed up, on his knees at eye level, but well out of arms reach from John. He continued speaking to him and eventually John's eyes locked onto his. The fear and the rage fell from his face as he looked around the room and collapsed onto the ground into heaving sobs.

Sherlock approached him slowly, and John fell into him, convulsing with heavy breaths and clutching the back of his friend's robe. Sherlock lifted him up and once again put him on the bed, but this time he didn't leave him. He lay on the bed while John's sobs shook his chest. With resignation, he hummed and rubbed John's back, which seemed to make him quiet down considerably.

26 minutes later, John was soundly asleep, his knitted jumper rising and falling softly. Sherlock knew he probably would not wake him up again, but still didn't leave him, just in case. Surprisingly, he found himself drifting off to sleep. He'd never slept next to someone. The idea had always sounded undesirable and uncomfortable. However, to help out his only friend, it wasn't terrible.

Sherlock woke up over five hours later (a generous amount of continuous sleep for him). He deftly slipped out from under John's arm, and straightened the imprint that his body had left on the sheets. John woke up much later to fresh coffee and breakfast.

"Sherlock?" said John blearily as he stumbled into the living room, clutching his head, "God, did you cook?"

"Yes. Consider it a birthday present."

"You burnt the sausage, didn't you?"

"I never said it was a good birthday present."

John sat slowly in a chair and shrugged, "Ugh, I must have really messed up last night for you to be this nice to me and for my headache to be this bad."

Sherlock proceeded to tell John about last night's adventure, ending it with them going home. John buried his head in his hands and sighed. In an hour he was cleaned up enough to go into work (late), which was where he texted Sherlock.

Sherlock stared at the four words he'd typed after John asked if there was anything else he did not remember, before deleting them. "When we got home…" How was he even supposed to convey that whole ordeal through text? He realized he now knew John on a level that was impossible to reach just by pure observation, which was saying a lot for the gifted detective. John didn't need to know that, though. He was so concerned with how "people talked," and he'd had enough embarrassment already.]

No.

-SH

Thank God. I'll be home soon and we can go down to the morgue to get the stuff for that pig experiment.

-JW