if i fell ; johnlock oneshots

auld lang syne

They're at Lestrade's. For a New Year's Eve party. And the place is full of people Sherlock doesn't know and doesn't care about. He only came for John, because John wanted to come. And of course, Sherlock is so ridiculously, one-sidedly in love with him that he couldn't possibly refuse. So here he is, standing stiffly beside John as the latter makes light conversation with someone Sherlock vaguely recognises but can't bother to remember where from (probably NSY, he knows, but who…? No, whatever – it doesn't actually matter. He's insignificant).

John touches Sherlock's arm quite suddenly but very gently, startling him so much that he jolts and the movement causes his champagne to slosh around the flute and spill over his fingers.

"You all right?" John asks softly, his voice almost too quiet to hear over the music. Sherlock just looks at him, not sure how to respond. The truth? A lie? No, just deflect.

"He was…" Sherlock begins, looking for a word John would improve of, but struggles quite a bit (forgettable, insignificant, stupid, oh, right, the forensics bloke, I think), until he mumbles, "…nice." He clears his throat, too aware of how dull that response was, so he adds, "From, er… forensics?"

John smiles warmly. "I'm surprised you remembered," he says, moving them towards one of the walls, away from the middle of the room. "But I reckon you don't recall his name, then, considering you can't even remember the name of whose party we're at."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "It's Lestrade," he replies, but knows what John means, and even if he didn't, he would now, with the look John's giving him. "All right. It starts with a G, followed by… an R?"

"Yep," John tells him, sipping from his flute. "Want to take a guess at a name?"

Sherlock thinks it over, trying to remember every single name he's ever heard starting with "GR". "Grant," he murmurs eventually, but John shakes his head. "Graham." Another shake. "Griffin."

"Nope," John responds, smiling fondly. "Try one last time."

"Gr… Greyson," Sherlock finally tries, but John shakes his head once again.

"Greg," he tells him gently, touching his shoulder. "You were so close though." Upon seeing Sherlock's expression, he adds, "It's okay that you forget it. I know that's just how you are – I'm only teasing, okay?"

Sherlock nods, still feeling a bit embarrassed, but knows that John isn't making fun of him and he doesn't have to feel the way he does. He drinks the rest of the champagne in his flute, hoping his face doesn't look red, and lets his eyes glance over everyone in the room.

"So, any resolutions for the new year?" John asks after some time has passed. Sherlock looks over at him, an eyebrow arched. John shrugs. "I mean… I'm going to try to make sure I take better care of Rosie. I know I haven't been the greatest father this past year, and she deserves only the best." He pauses for a bit, and then continues, trying to lighten the mood again, "I also think I might try to lose some weight, maybe. Eat healthier. Mrs. Hudson will be disappointed if I pass on the sweets but I'm getting a bit soft in the middle here." He pats his stomach and chuckles, but Sherlock doesn't laugh or agree. Instead, he looks away, thinking.

"I think that you're perfect as is," he says quietly after a moment, swallowing. His hands are shaking, so much so that he considers putting the empty champagne flute down. He almost hopes that John hasn't heard him, that perhaps the music is too loud. He chances another glance at John to find that the latter is watching him with something akin to wonder on his face for only a second. Then, it disappears just as quickly as it came, and John clears his throat, blinking a few times and averting his gaze.