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John sat at the kitchen table, trying to pay a few of the bills he'd been neglecting for the last two weeks. It was not a pleasant process, and it was made considerably less pleasant by the grown man in the other room who was behaving like a two-year-old.
"Bored!"
John ignored him, and arranged the bills in order of "This Must Be Paid Promptly" and "This Can Very Possibly Wait a Few Additional Weeks." The first pile was alarmingly large.
"Tea!"
John started with the first bill, for the electricity. He stared at Amount Due for a few long moments, and then carefully put the bill at the bottom of the pile.
"John, tea!"
The next bill was for his mobile. It was happily on the small side, at least in comparison, as John had finally signed up for a texting plan (which covered Sherlock's excesses). He pulled out the chequebook with some relief.
It was while he was writing out the cheque that he heard the faint buzz of Sherlock's mobile.
"Mobile!"
"Yours," responded John, not looking up.
"Yes, but where is it?"
"No idea."
The mobile kept buzzing; Sherlock threw pillows and papers and blankets and other bits and pieces and finally found the mobile in the freezer. John supposed it was as good a place as any.
"Lestrade," said Sherlock hopefully.
"Oh, good, perhaps someone's dead," said John dryly.
"Please tell me you have something interesting," said Sherlock into the mobile in a tone that relayed how much he doubted Lestrade's ability to provide anything remotely of the sort. There was a pause while Lestrade spoke; John tried not to pay attention while instead he scanned the internet bill.
After half a minute of listening, Sherlock made his pronouncement. "Boring."
John nearly hit his head on the table.
"Oh, well you didn't mention that detail," said Sherlock, clearly intrigued. "Half an hour."
He hung up the mobile, took one step forward, and shouted out such an explosive "YES," complete with fist-pump, that John's heart skipped a beat.
"Not in fact boring, I take it?"
"Not in the least, John, four women dead at precisely the same moment in three different parts of the city and murdered with the exact same weapon. This is brilliant, this is fantastic, this is exactly what I have been wanting—"
John sighed and went to find the calculator, last seen on his desk.
"Happy for you. I have to be at the clinic in an hour."
"Won't need you, quite sure I'll have it neatly solved and tied up before dinnertime tomorrow," said Sherlock jovially. He danced around the kitchen table and went to grab his coat. "Carry on with the bills, John, don't wait up."
And then three things happened, nearly simultaneously.
John found the calculator.
Sherlock knotted his scarf.
And then, without any warning, almost as if it happened every day, Sherlock reached over in his enthusiasm, grabbed John by the shoulders, and kissed him.
Properly.
On the mouth.
And, if John had to tell the truth, rather well.
Sherlock then let go and skipped - skipped - out of the flat, thundering down the stairs as the door slammed behind him.
John, on the other hand, fell against the desk, and reassessed the last few minutes of his life, and wondered when everyone would jump out of the woodwork and shout "SURPRISE!"
The clamor of footsteps stopped about halfway down the stairs, paused, and then carefully, and much more sedately, came back up the steps. The door opened, and Sherlock stood on the other side. John thought the shocked and befuddled expression on his face probably matched the expression on his own. It at least matched what he was feeling.
"I kissed you," said Sherlock, carefully trying the words on for size.
"Yes, you did," said John.
"I haven't done that before."
"No, can't say you have."
"Hmm," said Sherlock. "Enthusiastic response to a quadruple murder?"
"Bit not good, if it was," said John.
"No, probably not." Sherlock pressed his fingertips together and tapped his mouth thoughtfully. "I...ah...which part was not....a bit....good?"
John thought about it. It took a long while. "Timing."
"Oh. That's all right then," said Sherlock, and closed the door again, this time much more carefully, and went down the stairs.
John listened to the footsteps. Once again, they stopped halfway down, paused, and then came back up.
"So, the kiss itself. That was all right?"
"I think so," said John. "But I'm trying not to process it overly much at the moment."
"Oh. Why?"
"Well. Timing."
Sherlock nodded and closed the door.
This time he didn't even make it halfway down the stairs before turning back around.
When the door opened a third time, John didn't even wait for Sherlock to speak.
"Oh, for the love of—" And John crossed the room in two steps, reached up, and kissed Sherlock.
Properly.
Thoroughly.
With tongue.
"Oh," said Sherlock, eyes wide.
"Go away and solve a murder," said John. "I have to pay the bills now."
"Okay," said Sherlock, dazed, and John turned him around, shoved him out the door, and locked it.
Sherlock solved the murders by dinnertime the next day. John was doing the washing up in the kitchen, and Sherlock, taking courage from the day before, didn’t hesitate. He strode in, dropped his coat on the table, turned John around and kissed him.
Properly.
Thoroughly.
And was incredibly pleased when John responded by resting his hands on his shoulders and reaching up to meet him more than halfway.
The kiss went on for a long time, and when Sherlock came up for air, he spoke.
“Timing?” asked Sherlock hopefully.
“Better,” said John, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“You’re frowning. Why are you frowning? Was there something wrong?”
“Yes,” said John, pulling him into the bedroom. “Location.”