Sherlock Holmes hated pubs. He hated a lot of places, especially crowded places. The people and their lives and their problems rushed around inside his mind and drove him mad. Pubs especially, with people trying to drown their sorrows and get together and be someone they're not. All these distractions called out to him and rushed around inside the machine of his mind and hurt his head.

Which is what made him stepping out of cab in front of a well-known pub on a Friday so unusual.

He happened to be doing it for two of his maybe four or five total 'friends.' He uses the term loosely, he knows how much he annoys them, and how rare it is for them to get along. He got along better with them than he did most people, so he refers to them as his 'friends.'

Sherlock stepped into the pub, trying to ignore the sudden rush of people and things waiting to be found out, choosing instead to search for the familiar blond and silver heads he came to this awful place for.

Spotting the two at the bar, it was instantly clear as to why he was called down. John was surrounded by empty pint glasses, and leaning heavily on both Lestrade and the bar itself. Seeing Sherlock stalking over, Lestrade stands up, forcing John to try and support himself on the barstool.

"I really had no clue it would be this way. We just got to talking, and he got to drinking, and-" Lestrade started.

"I know," Sherlock cut him off. It was obvious that John needed a night out, Sherlock tried to not make unnecessary deductions about him, including the ones as to why he needed a night out. "Go home, Lestrade. I'll take care of him."

Lestrade nodded, looking between the two one last time curiously before heading out of the pub.

"Yeah! He'll take care of me! Whatever that means, it sounds kinda ominous to me." John slurred. "I think I'm good though, no need to call the Yard. Especially since he just he left!"

"Come on," Sherlock said, while helping John up and outside.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm coming on!" John paused and giggled. "Oh! Not like that! But anyways-"

Sherlock continued to ignore John's drunken ramblings and called out for a taxi. The cab didn't stop, deciding not to go with the two men standing in front of a pub.

"-rescue people! That's what you do! Oh, the great Sherlock Holmes, the world's only whatchamajigger- wait, what are you called again? Ah, doesn't matter. You, and big off coat and tallness and whatever, stalking in and helping all these little people. You- ha ha- do you remember that one time-" John continued to ramble on.

A different taxi slowed down in front of the pub, but another couple, snogging furiously, cut in front of Sherlock and John and hopped in and stole the cab. Sherlock swore softly. John paid little to no attention, focusing more on his never ending ramble.

"You even came here tonight to save me! Not that I needed saving or anything. But that's against my point. Sherlock home! Saving people! My Sherlock! Saves thingies other than people, too! He doesn't care! He doesn't judge like that, he's cool! Welp, he does judge, but whatever. Hey- what are you- oh!"

With relief, a cab finally pulled up to them. Ignoring the looks John's drunken shouts had given them, Sherlock shoved him into the cab. After quickly looking over the cabbie, he gave him the address.

"221 Baker Street."

"Yeah! That's our house-flat-thing. Holmes' house!" John giggled again. Sherlock did his best to ignore what John was saying. "Mister Sherlock Holmes, ya know!" he said to no one in particular.

It was quiet for a moment, before the silence was broken yet again. "Hey. Hey, Sherlock, hey," John said, nudging Sherlock with his elbow in the already tight cab space.

"What?" Sherlock replied shortly, barely looking at John.

"You- do you remember what I said earlier?"

"You said a lot of things earlier, and I don't really care to remember most of them."

"That's not nice, but you're not really a nice person. Sometimes. Whatever. That's not my point. So you don't remember what I said! How can you not remember what I said! Whatever."

Sherlock looked over briefly, before turning back to the window.

"I said that you're 'my Sherlock.' And I was right. You're my Sherlock."

Sherlock looked over to John again, and was taken aback by the sudden closeness of John's face to his.

"Mine," John said one final time before leaning his face closer a pressing his own lips against Sherlock's.

If John was sober, he would be horrified. Admitting his feelings was awful enough, but in that way. In a cab. And the kiss itself, though it was exactly what John wanted, was appalling. John's drunkenness caused him to be overeager and sloppy, while Sherlock's lips were still in shock at first, before eventually moving stiffly and awkwardly against John's.

After a moment or two, there was a small cough from the cabbie. Sherlock backed away quickly, while John moved closer to him again, attempting to keep his lips on Sherlock's. The cabbie coughed once more, louder this time, before John backed away from Sherlock, but only barely.

Sherlock handed over the cash, and the cabbie looked at him for the first time properly. "Hey, wait a minute. Aren't you that detective with that painting?"

Sherlock ignored the recognition and got out of the taxi.

"Yeah! Yeah he is! That's Sherlock bloody Holmes! I just kissed him and d'ya know-" John said, still sitting in the cab, content to keep talking.

"That's enough, John," Sherlock said, reaching inside to half-drag John out of the cab. Unlocking the door to 221B, Sherlock started to half-ignore John again. He wouldn't lie to himself, the events in the cab had shook him up. But isn't it what the both of them wanted? Deciding to force his thoughts down, he looked around the entry and noticed the tell tale clues that Mrs. Hudson was in, and was asleep. He then noticed how incredibly loud his drunk flat mate was being.

"Mrs. Hudson is asleep," Sherlock reprimanded John.

"Ah, yes, good ol' Mrs. Hudson!" John said, only slightly quieter than before. "She's so nice! And makes one hell of a tea, too! Love her like I love- I don't know. Not like how I love you, but-"

The sentence unnerved Sherlock, and caused him to pause halfway up the staircase to their flat. "You love me?" he asked quietly.

"Oh, of course I do! Daft to think I didn't" John replied, back to his original loud volume.

"Oh," was all Sherlock said, opening the door to 221B. John stumbled and leaned more heavily against Sherlock. When they finally made it to the sofa, "Oh, yes," was all John said before falling face first onto the couch and immediately passing out. Sherlock paused another moment longer, looking at John, before heading towards his own room.

John woke up at noon the next day wit his head pounding. Not as young as I used to be, he thought to himself while trying a third time to get himself up off the sofa without fainting or puking. When he finally got up, his next objective was to get to the kitchen and get tea.

Getting to the kitchen was quite a feat for John in his current state. Leaning heavily against the doorframe, he paused before going to start the kettle.

"Kettle has been boiled not that long ago," Sherlock said at the microscope.

John jumped imperceptibly at the unexpectedness of Sherlock's deep voice. "Oh." He started to move again towards the kettle, before having to pause again from the sudden nausea. "Jesus Christ. What happened last night?" John asked quietly, not expecting an answer.

"You mean you don't remember, then?" Sherlock asked, equally quiet. His hands had quit twiddling on the microscope.

"No, I don't, Sherlock! I remember Lestrade and I going to the pub, and after that I can only assume I drank an entire liquor store," John snapped before grabbing his forehead in an attempt to stop the pounding.

"Oh. Pain-reliever in the cupboard," Sherlock stated, focusing properly on his experiment once again.

"Yes, I know, I was the one to put them there!" John snapped again, grabbing his tea and pills. "I'm going to go nap, and maybe die. Not sure yet." He then began the slow process of walking back to the living room sofa.

Sherlock made no movement to show that he acknowledged what he said, though in reality he did take note. He always did when it came to John.

When John woke up again a few hours later, feeling only slightly better. While his stomach had finished rolling, he had some weird dreams that left him unnerved. They might not even be dreams. Oh god.

John walked slowly back into the kitchen where Sherlock hasn't moved from his initial spot.

"Hey," John started nervously. Sherlock continued to focus on his slide.

"I think- I think I remember what happened last night," he continued. Sherlock's hands stopped moving.

The pub. Lestrade laughing. Lestrade frowning. John babbling on and on about Sherlock and himself over countless beers. Sherlock coming to get him. Sherlock and John in a cab together. John's lips on Sherlock's. Sherlock's lips on his own. Sherlock taking him up to the flat. John telling Sherlock he loved him. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.

Sherlock continuing to stare down at his microscope.

"For God's sake say something!" John finally snapped.

"What do you want me to say?" Sherlock asked calmly, looking up at him.

"I- I don't know! Just say something." John paused and silence fell across the small kitchen. "I remember last night. Well, not all of it, but the important parts." Sherlock slowly stood up as John slowly walked closer to him. "The most important part, it's not me kissing you, or me confessing- geez, confessing my- whatever." John sighed. "The most important part, I believe, is that you kissed me back."

John has now directly in front of Sherlock.

"The important part of right now, I suppose, is whether or not you would do the same thing now."

A/N: Hello! Still new to those whole thing, I'm not even sure if this is the proper way to do an author's note. I think it is. Hopefully Maybe.

Anyway, I would love any form of review, the good, the bad, the ugly. And thanks for reading! You are awesome!