Live In Love

Where Do We Go Now?

John opened his eyes to see sunshine streaming in through the window. He looked around and saw he had ended up in his bed back in the flat. I don't even remember getting home last night, he thought. He tried to sit up, but the pounding that had started in his head only grew worse.

"Oh my God," he groaned. He closed his eyes and tried to recap what happened the night before. He remembered they ate dinner; he remembered him making Sherlock drink; he remembered taking a third shot, but then everything was fuzzy...except for one thing.

John's eyes flew open so fast it made his headache worse.

"Sherlock," he muttered, and his heart started to pound. He said he thought I was cute. Was he serious? Or was he just drunk off his arse? John groaned and shoved a pillow over his face. Maybe I can suffocate myself. Then I won't have to deal with this. John tried to smother himself for about 5 minutes to no avail. He sighed and threw the pillow across the room. He rubbed his hands over his eyes and slowly climbed out of bed. He put on his robe and walked downstairs as slowly as he could.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw Sherlock sitting in his chair, curled up, holding his violin in his hands, absentmindely plucking the strings. His hair was disheveled and sticking to his forehead. He was still in the clothes he wore the night before. He must feel like hell after last night, John thought. Sherlock looked over at the stairs and smiled weakly at the other hungover member of the flat.

"Ah, good morning, John," Sherlock said, forcing a smile. John merely nodded and walked to the kitchen.

John tried to be as quiet as he could while putting on the kettle. If Sherlock felt as badly as he did, he knew any loud noise might just kill him. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes. John could feel Sherlock staring at him from the living room. I wonder if he remembers any of what happened.

"Tea?" John asked, trying to break the awkward silence.

"Hmm?" Sherlock replied, seeming to be pulled out of deep thought.

"Would you like tea?" John asked again.

"Oh, yes, tea. That'd be great, thanks."

John got down his and Sherlock's mugs and prepared their drinks. He turned off the stove and slowly carried the cups to the living room. He silently handed Sherlock the mug then sat down gingerly in his own chair.

The two looked at each other for a couple of minutes, neither wanting to be the first to speak. John finally had enough of the silence. He cleared his throat, jarring Sherlock out of his lull.

"So, um, last night," he said, watching Sherlock's face. Sherlock continued to stare at him, apparently waiting for him to proceed.

"Sherlock, do you remember last night?" he asked, blatantly. Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed.

"Yes, I remember last night," he said quietly.

"How much do you remember?"

"I remember all of it."

John paused and felt his heart pound harder than he had ever felt before.

"So, you remember what I said in the cab?"

Sherlock nodded.

John sat in his chair, paralyzed.

"Do you...do you remember what you said in the cab?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't reply for a minute, and each passing second made John feel like he was going to explode. Sherlock finally opened his eyes and looked at John.

"I told you...I always know what I'm saying."

John rubbed his hands on his robe; his palms were getting sweaty.

"So, you meant to say-"

"Well, no, I didn't mean to say it," Sherlock interjected.

John felt as though his heart was being run through a wood chipper. He could feel his cheeks burning and he thought for sure Sherlock could hear the pounding coming from his chest.

Sherlock took a deep breath and looked John in the eyes. He leaned closer to the shaking doctor, and softened his voice. "I didn't mean to say it," he started, then slowly curved the right side of his mouth in to a sad smile. "But I did mean what I said."

John stared back at Sherlock in total shock. He thinks I'm cute. He meant it. Dammit, you are staring. Say something, dipshit! he scolded himself.

"Oh...that's...great," John forced out, his voice cracking. Sherlock chuckled and leaned back. He ran his thin fingers through his hair and sunk deeper in to his chair.

"So, where do we go from here?" John asked, his voice nothing but a hoarse whisper. Sherlock looked at him intently and shrugged.

"I guess we see how things pan out."

"Yes, pan out. Good," John said, nodding. Suddenly he was very conscious of his hands and he had no clue what to do with them. He resolved to gripping the arms of the chair as tightly as he could.

The flatmates continued to sit in silence for a couple of minutes, both absorbing the information they just received. Suddenly, John felt something touching on his hand. He looked down and saw Sherlock's fingers gripping his palm.

"But tell me one thing, John," Sherlock said, looking the other square in the eye.  "Am I the cutest drunk?"

John smiled at the detective, and they both burst out laughing, neither one of them feeling the pounding of the headache they had been enduring all morning.