Idiots in love.
1112
1-1-1-2.
The mobile's lock screen slipped gracefully into the app screen, and John let out a broken noise from somewhere in his throat, tossing the phone away from him. It landed on an armchair near the fireplace and in the back of his mind he was grateful for that, but now all he could think about what Sherlock, that fucking bastard, that beautiful, wonderful, absolute bastard. Now he was gone, and John didn't know if he'd ever see Sherlock again, and he couldn't tell him how please he was that the phone's passcode was January 1st, 2012— the night they'd kissed.
Prompt was from Paralelsky, and it was: slip