The closet is small, to say the least. Maybe three feet wide and three feet deep, with a small gathering of brooms and other cleaning supplies scattered at their feet.
"Sherlock, what's going on?" John hisses through his teeth.
The detective merely rolls his eyes—something John con sense rather than see, in the darkness of the cupboard—and mutters quietly, "I didn't want our suspect to spot us."
"We are in a very crowded pub and you thought he'd just pick us out, straightaway, as two people who are investigating him for murder?"
"We do look a bit out of place, do we not?" Sherlock sighs.
John, frustrated, crosses his arms over his chest—a gesture which causes unintentional contact with the other man's chest in their tight quarters.
"You. You look out of place. Wouldn't even order a damn beer," John mutters.
"I'm not interested in drinking, John. We're on a case," Sherlock states, matter-of-factly.
John throws up his hands in exasperation and skims Sherlock's jaw. The doctor doesn't seem to notice this.
Sherlock's too busy watching the small crack of light at the bottom of the closet door. While John continues to huff and ramble, the detective watches as various shadows cross back and forth through the light.
Until one shadow slows and stops just outside the door.
John's muttering to himself and Sherlock straightens. "Sorry, John," he says quickly before his hands are pulling the doctor's face up to his own.
John barely has time to get out an annoyed "Sorry for—" before Sherlock's mouth is over his, their lips colliding.
The door opens, and illuminates their cramped hiding place.
While John concentrates on Sherlock's mouth moving against his, Sherlock focuses on hoping all this unintentional voyeur sees is two people kissing in a cupboard.
"Sorry, mates," the intruder mutters. It is not their suspect. There's a short hesitation before they are left in the darkness again.
As soon as the door clicks shut, Sherlock begins to pull away.
John is less than willing to let the kiss end, Sherlock finds, because he pulls on the collar of Sherlock's coat to hold him in place.
"John," he whispers between them, "we're fine. They're gone."
The only John manages in response is a breathless "So?" before his lips are against his partner's again.
A/N: Have some Johnlock fluff.