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[personal profile] viciouswishes
Title: Scotch, Dumpsters, Eggs, and Chances
Author: viciouswishes
For: [ profile] mallyns -- Happy Birthday!
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG
Beta: [ profile] geki

The first time they kissed, it didn't count. They were absolutely plastered after solving a case. Sherlock had broken into Mycroft's personal stash of aged Scotch; he'd claimed it was a gift after saving queen and country. He said it with that bored look on his face. The one that said trouble and sent a chill through John's spine. John had been smiling. The bastard they'd put away for life had been a particularly nasty one, who'd enjoyed sending body parts of children through the post. He'd never been able to look at an unopened package the same after that.

But that night -- the night of the first kiss, the one that didn't count because they were drunk -- they were drunk, and Sherlock was propping himself up in Mycroft's overly stuffed chair as they never made it out of his office. Sherlock had pinched his nose to imitate Mycroft's more nasal voice. John thought it was the funniest thing in the world. Then he'd thought that Sherlock's cupid-bow lips looked particularly fascinating, so much so that he just had to reach out and lick them.

About two seconds later, as if on cue, Mycroft opened the door to shoo them out, calling after them that he'd send along the bill for the 100-year-old liquor he'd received as a present from a certain mistress of a certain member of the House of Parliament. As they staggered down the hallway, Sherlock turned his head back to yell at Mycroft that unless there were dead bodies involved, he didn't care about mistresses.

And that had been that.

Of course, that didn't stop John from obsessing. From lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling (John had sobered up on the tube ride home, when Sherlock had taken a moment to tell a particularly mean looking young man that Sherlock knew he'd robbed a corner shop earlier that day and that the criminal had asthma so badly that he was sure even Lestrade could beat him a foot race) and not thinking about Sherlock's lips, about his unnaturally pale and oh so soft skin, and about how John was not falling into any romantic entanglement with the man who could be defined as his best, and perhaps only, friend and roommate. And there was certainly no thinking about what Sherlock might say the next morning.

Of course, John should've predicted that Sherlock would act as if nothing had happened. Nothing of consequence. Besides, there was another dead body, and thankfully, nothing sent through the post.

The second time they kissed, Sherlock had been the one to initiate it. It happened in a flash. John blinked, and then Sherlock's lips were gone.

They'd been in alleyway, following a clue when Sherlock had stumbled. Stumbled in the perfect way that his lips met John's. Then he'd whispered something as he backed away. If John didn't know any better, he'd would've swore that the whisper had been a "Sorry." But Sherlock wasn't prone to apologizing, and there were only so many world-askewing events that John could deal with in one day.

Instead, they spent most of the rest of the night in silence, digging through other people's rubbish. Until Sherlock yelled out, "Found it," and they took the knife back home to analyze. Well, Sherlock did the analyzing, and John made a pot of tea because that's what one does in a crisis, when one thinks there was a sliver of a chance that Sherlock both kissed him and apologized in the same evening.

The third time Sherlock and John kissed, they'd been avoiding each other for days. No, avoiding wasn't the right word. They'd been missing each other. Sherlock would wake up just as John headed to the clinic. Or Mrs. Hudson came up to ask John if he'd mind taking a look at her seemingly always dripping kitchen sink because well, her hip and repairmen were just so expensive these days. Then Lestrade would ring or Sherlock would shush him as the evening news came on the telly.

"We need-" would be all the words escaping from John's mouth before Sherlock flew out the door, telling John he didn't need his blogger tonight. John ignored the emphasis Sherlock had put on his. "Eggs. We need eggs," John finished.

The whole dance was absurd. Absurd as only Sherlock achieved. Especially in that somewhere deep down John knew he was just as absurd as Sherlock, but he sure as hell wasn't going to admit it. So John waited.

He paced around their living room a million times, imagining life when Sherlock laughed him to the street corner or when Sherlock invited John to his bed. No, they'd go to John's room. It was cleaner. He wasn't sure Sherlock ever washed his sheets. Running a washing machine was probably right up there with the useless knowledge of the Earth rotating around the sun. John worked himself up into a frenzy of hating Sherlock, determined to tell the man off, and then into a state of horniness, where he'd decided to pounce Sherlock the moment he came home. Caution be damned.

Many hours later, Sherlock arrived. He looked horrible. Dirty. Even his precious coat needed to be taken to the cleaners. (Usually Sherlock removed it before making John jump into the dumpster.) And in his left hand, Sherlock carried a plastic shopping bag. He stopped and stared at John before saying, "I bought eggs."

"I see that." And then John started to laugh. So did Sherlock. They stood there, laughing and watching the other. "You got eggs," John said; their laughter rose again. Sherlock with that big grin John loved seeing, the one that made him look 20-years-old again and lustful for life.

Then the laughter stopped. Sherlock sat down the eggs, and John walked toward him. He cupped Sherlock's face in his hands and kissed him. Kissed him properly. No drinking. No tripping. And certainly no apologizing. John kissed Sherlock, and Sherlock kissed him back.
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