The door slammed open, ricocheting off the wall downstairs. John jumped quite physically—he'd been updating his blog, rehashing another adventure, lost in thought—and the sound had disturbed him more than he'd anticipated. His head swiveled around to meet the door. "Hello?" he called. The footfalls on the stairs were heavy. Much too heavy for Mrs. Hudson, surely. Could it have been Sherlock? He wasn't the type to slam doors though…

There was another sound then. The body, whoever it had been, had crashed into the wall. The footsteps were uneven, moving quickly and backwards down the stairs. Everything was still. "Is… is everything alright?" John called, standing. He crept toward the open door of the flat.

"John." he could hear from the staircase.

"Sherlock?" he called back. He framed himself in the doorway and peered down at the tall, darkly clothed man resting against the banister. "John. Help me." Sherlock demanded. "These stairs are moving. Obviously we're experiencing some kind of…" he trailed off, shaking his mop of dark curls about. "Some kind of shift…" his words were slurring, forming new words to correlate with his current state. John made his way slowly to the top of the staircase and stared. "Sherlock, are you drunk?"

Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head once again. "Drunk? How very… utterly…" he trailed off again, sniffing. He let one hand drop from the banister, to swipe at his hair. The unbalanced Sherlock began sliding backwards once again, hand slick with liquid. What it was, John was unsure, but he rushed forward down the stairs and grabbed hold of Sherlock by the lapels of his overcoat. "Sherlock, you smell like a distillery." he commented, nose scrunched slightly at the sudden fumes. "And you smell like Old Spice. And tea. Any other observations?" Sherlock muttered, swinging his arm to lay his free hand flat against the wall. John yanked Sherlock forward, bringing him to his upright. "I think you need a lie down." he said.

"I'm fine John. I'm perfectly normal." Sherlock stated easily. He squared his shoulders and jaw and took a deep breath. "Now just… hold the stairs steady." he demanded. John's eyebrows furrowed, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Can you do that? Just one thing John. Obviously something is happening beneath the stairs and I can't be bothered to investigate. So hold them steady."

"And how do you propose I do that?" John asked, scratching the back of his head.

"As you would a ladder, John. Shall I give step-by-step instructions as well?" Sherlock replied, annoyance obvious in his tone. John threw his hands up, rolling his eyes as he scooted past Sherlock and down the steps. Sherlock watched as John crouched down, holding the last step on either end. He looked up at Sherlock impatiently. "Go on then. I've got it covered." he said haughtily.

Sherlock loped up the stairs slowly, keeping one hand running against the wall and the other clasped to the banister. He would stop every few steps, looking back at John. "Hold them steady, I can feel the wobble." Sherlock would insist. John shut his eyes, taking a deep breath. "Right, sorry. Had an itch." he grumbled. He watched Sherlock's lean frame make it to the landing and easily traipse inside. John growled beneath his breath, taking long steps up the stairs.

When he reached the flat, Sherlock lay on the couch. He had his phone in his hands, and he seemed to be sending a text. "What are you doing?" John asked.

"Sending a message to someone." Sherlock mumbled.

"Who? It's two in the morning Sherlock. You need sleep."

"I don't need sleep. I need to send this text."

"I'm sure it can wait until the morning."

"No. It is VITAL it be sent immediately." Sherlock protested, swinging himself upright. He squinted at the screen, tapping it harder than necessary. John shook his head. "And who is it to, exactly?" he asked.

"Moriarty." Sherlock muttered. "I've been doing a lot of thinking about him. He needs to know what I've discovered of him."

"Moriar-? Sherlock, hand me the phone." John said. He stood before Sherlock with his hand stretched outward to his face. Sherlock's eyes rolled up slowly, peering upward at John's stern face. "He needs to know this John. It's very, very urgent. And I may have forgotten by the morning." Sherlock replied, staring. Their eyes were locked. It was a battle of will—who would look away first? John set his jaw and opened his eyes wider. Sherlock's lips turned into a smirk. He looked down at his phone once again. Quickly, John averted his eyes as well, looking down to the phone's screen. He could just make out what it said:

Moriartyy…. I hhave had time to consider our erlationshipo and drink HEAVILY and I have realizzzed that you are a TWAT. - SH

"Sherlock, give me the phone." John demanded.

"No." Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock, please don't make me snatch it from you." John begged.

"You wouldn't be able to." Sherlock insisted.

"Last chance, Sherlock." John said wearily.

"And I'm allowing it to flutter by, what a shame." Sherlock retorted sarcastically, standing.

"Right. That's it. Give it here." John said suddenly, grabbing hold of the top of the phone with both hands. Sherlock's grip tightened. "John, let go." he ordered from clenched teeth. "Sherlock, give me the phone." John insisted, pulling it hard. The phone slipped from Sherlock's hands for only a moment. Then Sherlock grabbed hold of it once again and managed—while John was having a mini-celebration of power—to easily grasp it from him. John reached for it once again, but Sherlock—standing at least five inches taller than John—threw his arm into the air, high above his head.

"Sherlock." John said, his voice the same tone as a fed-up father.

"Jump for it, John. Go on." Sherlock said with a sloppy smirk. He wobbled slightly, but quickly regained his posture.

"Don't be such a prat. Give it."

"No."

"Sherlock."

"John."

"Right." John said, nodding. With little time to calculate, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's middle, shoved his shoulder into his stomach, and tackled him to the couch. From there, thoughtlessly, John planted himself over Sherlock. He straddled Sherlock's lap, to keep him settled in the seat, and used his shoulders as leverage to reach higher. Sherlock was waving his arm around, shaking his head. "No, John. No. Stop it." he said with mock concern.

"Sherlock, give it here." John strained to grab hold of the phone.

"John, you can't." Sherlock replied.

Jaw clenched and eyes set, John grabbed hold of Sherlock's right wrist with his left hand. From there, he pulled Sherlock's arm down behind his head, with just a touch more force than he had intended. Sherlock's face contorted into just a hint of grimace, his lips pulling back to reveal clenched teeth, but John didn't release him. They stared at one another, eyes locked on each other, anger seemingly boiling behind each. "Drop it. Now." John growled from gritted teeth.

It was then that Sherlock gave himself the upper hand.

Without warning, Sherlock's head moved forward.

His lips planted themselves over John's.

John heart began to beat rapidly. His body shook with nerves. He continued holding on to Sherlock's arm, but his primal instincts took over. Sherlock's lips were soft, softer than John could've or dared imagine. They moved slowly over his own, warm and luscious and inviting. John's eyes fluttered closed involuntarily. He pressed himself into Sherlock's kiss, hard and needy and completely confused. Their tongues met, tip-toeing into the unknown territory of each other's mouths. Sherlock still tasted of the wine he'd apparently drank by the gallon, but it was sweet and it made sense in the mouth of the man beneath him.

The man, John's head told him.

Man, it seemed to enunciate.

John was kissing a man.

John was kissing Sherlock Holmes.

John could not be bothered with such semantics as gender.

He tangled his free hand into Sherlock's dark curls, pushing him closer, though it was seemingly impossible. Their lips merely smashed together more. Sherlock's free hand, which had been previously trapped beneath him, was now at John's jaw. His long, slender fingers spread along John's neck, framing his jaw. He squeezed his throat, just enough to be a presence, and John could feel something familiar beginning to stir.

Just then, Sherlock's hand tilted John's chin upward. Their lips broke from their lock, and Sherlock's eyes settled cooly on John's suddenly frantic ones. "Here." Sherlock said. He dropped the phone and it landed with a soft thump on the couch cushion. John released his arm, allowing Sherlock to drop it back into it's proper place. The screen on the phone indicated that the message, the dreadfully drunk message, had been sent.

As though just realizing his position, John quickly shimmied off Sherlock's lap. He stood, grabbing up Sherlock's phone and pocketing it. "I don't understand you." John muttered. He wiped his mouth, vaguely attempting to shake the quivers his body still seemed to have. "Oh?" Sherlock inquired simply.

"You're not… I'm not…" John rounded on him, looking into Sherlock's relaxed features. "Why would you send that? You do realize he has the upper hand, right?"

"John, that's not why you're upset."

"No, Sherlock. It is. You've made yourself look like a drunken twat now, you realize that, don't you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes then shut them, laying his head back on the couch. After a moment, John felt his phone vibrating against his side. He wiped at his mouth again, still heated from Sherlock's lips it felt, and snatched out his phone. There, bright and illuminated, was a text. From Sherlock. He opened it, eyebrows furrowed, and a drunken, horribly written message came onto the screen.

"You… you sent it to me." John stated.

"Hmm?" Sherlock asked, unmoving.

"Your text. You sent it to me. The one for Moriarty."

Sherlock opened his eyes lazily and sighed. "Damn. Jim and John. Must've hit the wrong name." he muttered. He rolled himself up until he came to a full stand. He readjusted the blazer he wore and shrugged. "Probably for the best." he said. Then, without another word, he strode past John, taking the familiar path to his room.

"What? Thats… all that, and that's all you have to say for yourself?" John called after him.

Sherlock's top half reappeared around the corner. "Is there something more I should say?"

John considered asking about the kiss. Had he done it as a ploy, a way to send the text while distracting John from it? Had he known that John would just go with it, say nothing about it later? Had John just been conned? John's jaw tightened. Or had Sherlock meant to do it, for other reasons, reasons more primal, more human? Sherlock stared expectantly at John, but John had no reply.

"No. No, I suppose not." John said finally.

Sherlock nodded then. "I'm going to bed." he stated.

"Alright." John said.

"Good night, John." Sherlock said, disappearing round the corner once again.

"Yeah." John lamely. "Good night."