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John paced around the apartment, a grimace working its way across his features. The row had been... well, a bit not good. He hadn't meant to let his guard down, to let his feelings known in such a delicate situation, but Sherlock had been so ridiculously possessive and it just seemed-

It seemed like he needed to say it. It had worked, at least; Sherlock had shut up rather immediately, looking confused and hurt. He knew the man hated feeling wrong, but John was putting his foot down. Sure, the young woman had been attractive (although a bit too young for his tastes), and he may have been guilty of flirting just a little, but...

Okay, so maybe flirting with the cute young girl while trying to get Sherlock to speak about his emotions was an incredibly stupid idea. Sentiment was hardly the detective's specialty, and he had been so close to opening up before the damned blonde with the short skirt slid up with a sheepish grin.

Ugh, it was all his fault.

He pulled out his phone. He had sent his first message an hour ago, the second thirty minutes ago, and Sherlock had not responded to either.

You wanna tell my why you pulled a disappearing act?

-JW

If you're going to be out late, will you at least bring back some milk?

-JW_ _

John figured the silence was because Sherlock needed time alone. Alright, he understood. He could relate. It had been an hour, there was no reason to worry. Still, though, he felt he should let Sherlock know he was sorry- the man's pride was a fickle beast, one that had been pretty badly wounded during the argument.

Sherlock, I'm sorry. Please, come home.

-JW

There. That should fix it. In theory, at least. John sank to the couch and flipped on the telly, eager for any form of distraction. The images raced past his vision without entirely sinking in. It was hard to focus; he felt like a right arse for demanding so much of Sherlock so soon, but, jesus. He had waited so long for the time to be right, for any form of sign, and then out the blue everything was right in their world-

And he may have just fucked everything up.

God dammit.

John sighed and rose, moving toward the kitchen as he tried to still the knot of anxiety churning in his stomach. He needed a drink, a stiff one. Sherlock kept a bottle of scotch for "esteemed guests" (meaning Mycroft, of course, because the scotch was formal and far less welcoming than tea), and John wasn't sure he had ever opened it. It sat tucked back in the cupboard, faintly coated with dust, and John thought he'd never seen anything more beautiful.

"Hello, love. I'll take it slow, I promise."

He was talking to liquor. Okay, maybe he was a little worse off than he originally estimated. He pulled a glass down and filled it nearly to the brim, carrying it and the bottle back to the couch. He tossed back drinks as he cycled through the telly, hardly noticing the passage of time.

Well, alright, that was a lie. As time ticked away and his sobriety fled, John sent more texts, increasingly desperate. He couldn't remember them entirely; all he recalled was pressing the 'send' key with a frown. Finally, around two a.m. his phone chimed.

Home in 15. Tonight is my turn.

-SH.

John grinned broadly as he rose, stumbling into the coffee table with a loud 'Oof!' He had drunk a good fifth of the bottle by himself, and it was affecting him pretty heavily. When he heard the sound of feet bounding up the stair two at a time, he couldn't help but move toward the door eagerly. He was halfway there when it flew open with a bang, revealing Sherlock standing with something burning in his pale eyes.

"Whad'you mean, it's your turn?" John was good about not slurring his words when he was in his cups, and he was rather proud of this. Sherlock hardly seemed to notice.

"Bedroom, John. Now. Tonight, you're mine."