AN: no Mary pregnancy... I'm aiming for Johnlock and didn't need babies complicating things.
John slammed his perfect white front door behind him, walked down the perfect gravel path between his perfectly manicured green lawns and flung open his little white picket fence before slamming that behind him too. Whose stupid idea was a picket white fence, his or Mary's? Wasn't that just over the top, wasn't that asking for trouble?
White picket fences signified a happy home, with loving people and the perfect lifestyle. Well the neighbours could have heard how much of a lie that stupid fence was.
'Maybe you should just go live with your boyfriend!' Mary had yelled and instead of his usual I'm not gay routine John had simply retorted 'Maybe I will!'
John kicked that stupid fence for good measure. Sherlock. The stupid white fence was Sherlock's idea. He and John had been flipping through real estate brochures when it had caught the detective's eye. He had stopped and stared and after John queried he had told john that every perfect couple needed a white picket fence. John had replied that would be perfect for him and Mary and something had darkened in Sherlock's eyes, but john tried his darndest not to think about it.
Now here he was, out the front of his stupid perfect family house, fuming. He had fully intended to storm into the car and continue on to Baker Street with no hesitation. However, here he was hesitating.
Sherlock would know, in less than a glance, just how messed up John's life was right now. The state of his fingernails, the crease in his shirt, something stupid and (to John) insubstantial would tip the genius off and he would have a field day.
'Ahh sentiment. Stupid really, the whole idea of marriage. Spending the rest of your life without learning to hate a person? Impossible.' Well if only the smug arse had warned him before he had gotten himself hitched. If only he hadn't thrown himself off a hospital and left John feeling just as shattered as his body had looked, easy pickings for someone to come and steal his life away.
John sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. He could either go back inside and face Mary (that would end well, he'd already spent the last three nights on the sofa) or he could gather his strength and brave the unforgiving truths that would no doubt spill out of Sherlock's mouth and just cause his deep depression to be all that more real.
Mind if I come over, spend the night? JW
John, instead of driving his car, started walking towards a busier street in the area hoping to catch a taxi, if only he had Sherlock's magical ability to summon cabs from thin air. John wondered vaguely if Mycroft had anything to do with that, a small gesture to keep his brother out of trouble.
As he reached a point where he could see the black curve of a cab, and the yellow light that signified its vacancy, a nervous worry started to build in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock hadn't replied yet, Sherlock always replied straight away. What was keeping him?
John had to admit that as far as best friends went he was doing a poor job recently. He hadn't seen Sherlock in two weeks and that had been a short visit. They still text each other once every few days but that was it. What if Sherlock didn't want to see him? What if Sherlock was sick of John not paying him enough attention, the genius did need constant praise.
The worry however was short lived. Just as the taxi he hailed came to a stop beside him the phone in his pocket vibrated. He climbed into the cab and pulled it out.
Like a sleep over? SH
Yes, I suppose that's one way of putting it. JW
Of course. I shall organise your sleeping area. SH
John chuckled to himself. A sleep over? It made them sound like they were twelve year old girls. He could only imagine what Sherlock had done to his bedroom, he expected that was what Sherlock meant by 'sleeping area'. The room covered in experiments, dead animals, body parts and dangerous chemicals covering every flat surface was the picture that came to mind.
John still had a key to 221B so he let himself inside. The first thing he saw on entering was Mrs Hudson, nearly doubled over in laughter. John smiled and tried to find out what was so funny but she just waved a hand in his direction, wiped a tear from her eye and walked away. John was fairly certain he heard a muffled snort of 'Sleep overs' as she passed.
More nervously than he had been before he saw his former land lady (not his house keeper) John crept up the stairs. He could hear a faintly discouraging chinking of plates and the soft murmur of Sherlock Holmes talking avidly to himself.
When John made it to the landing he had to pause and blink for a second. The main living room in the flat had been transformed. The furniture had all been pushed aside and moved to the very edges of the room. John even noticed some smaller items of furniture, such as the coffee table, missing completely. Instead the floor was covered in two big mattresses.
'If my room was really that bad I could have stayed on the couch. Wouldn't be the first time.' John called as he made his way carefully around the bedding into the kitchen.
'Hmm? Oh, that, it's for the sleep over.' Sherlock replied and John had to stop and blink again.
The detective had several large bowls in front of him filled with all types of confectionary; snacks, crisps, sweets, chocolate and a large assortment of colourful lollies. However it was the rudimentary cooking device that took up the majority of the dining table that caught John's eye. A metal tray had been placed strategically over a Bunsen burner on full heat using some kind of mesh structure. And on the metal tray cooked a frozen pizza.
John glanced at the oven to discover why the pizza wasn't being cooked the conventional way and had to bite back a sharp remark about the state of the kitchen. He didn't live here anymore, it wasn't his place. However he couldn't help but inwardly flinch at the state of the old oven. It looked as though it had gotten into a fight with an angry transformer and lost, badly. There were bits of metal all around it, the front had been pulled off (not gently from the look of it), and the gas pipes from inside had been pulled roughly to the front and looked a little worse for wear.
'A woman was found dead with her head in the oven. Police suspected suicide. I knew it was murder.' Sherlock remarked, following his eye line.
'And you proved it by gutting Mrs. Hudson's oven.' John said. He tried to make his voice sound disapproving but he couldn't help but smile and realise he missed all the crazy case solving experiments that ruined his flat.
'Yes, rather unfortunate. However I've usually no need for something such as that, Mrs Hudson generally brings food, and now a guilty man is behind bars. Hooray for London.' Sherlock was looking at him with that strange way he had. No one else would be able to see the slight upturn of his mouth, or crinkle at his eye, but John knew it was there.
John sat at the table and listened while Sherlock regaled him with the adventure of the murderer who had been running through London using regular household appliances to kill his victims. As he went Sherlock started getting more and more animated, encouraged by Johns praise, and walked around the kitchen wildly gesturing to emphasise points of his story.
John was filled with a sense of awe at his friends ability to join the dots that none of the police had seen and also a hint of envy that he had not been there to share the adventure. That, of course, only served to remind him why he hadn't been there, which reminded him of Mary, which reminded him why he was there now.
'Sherlock,' John said once Sherlock had reached the exciting conclusion (in which he had almost been stabbed to death using a fragment of a broken TV screen), 'Why haven't you asked why I'm here. No, wait, why haven't you told me why I'm here in your smug way?'
Sherlock visibly deflated a little and a shadow passed his face momentarily, 'I thought it would be polite not to. If you had wanted to discuss it you would have. However if you think it will help if I point out how bad this last fight was, how Mary threw a plate that only narrowly missed you, how you responded by punching a sizable hole in the wall and then after sharing angry words stormed out and ended up here, then I'm sure I could humour you.'
John looked down at his hands. Somehow it did help, he wasn't sure why, and he knew Sherlock had only said those things to cut at him for calling him smug (and quite possibly not cheering at the end of his story), but it actually calmed his whole body a little, knowing that Sherlock knew, he didn't have to explain.
'Oh look the pizza's ready.' Sherlock said, placing it evenly on plates and moving to sit on one of the mattresses in the living room. He held John's plate in a way that suggested John should sit next to him on the floor and despite himself John sat.
'What's with the mattresses Sherlock? Was my room really that messy?' John said around a mouthful of pizza. Oh, it was amazing, he hadn't had frozen pizza in an age, Mary thought it was unhealthy.
'The room upstairs is fine.' Sherlock replied, 'However I was given to know that at a sleep over the bedding was to be arranged in the centre of the biggest room in the residence.'
'Yes, when you're a ten year old girl maybe.' John chuckled, but on seeing Sherlock's hurt he added, 'Looks like it'll be a good night, fun.'
Sherlock nodded his head curtly and sat chewing his pizza for a minute before looking down on it and frowning. 'Really how do you eat this rubbish John? I can feel the chemicals of it filling my system and impairing my brain. Though apparently it is the staple food of sleep overs'
'Impairing, huh?' huffed out John, really he had been surprised his friend had taken a bite from the pizza voluntarily in the first place, 'It's good, tasty, and at a sleep over you don't care about thinking, it's just supposed to make you feel good and happy.'
Despite John's assurances Sherlock put his plate down on a spare square of clear floor and stood, retrieving two tumblers and a bottle of something that looked suspiciously like it had been created here by the mad scientist himself. When he was offered a glass John sniffed it surreptitiously to an eye roll of his friend and Sherlock quite pointedly took a long sip as if to prove its safety.
'That hardly proves anything Sherlock.' John said as he took a cautious sip. It wasn't terrible. In fact it was quite wonderful. It was clearly something very strongly alcoholic but had been made in such a way that John was sure it was the only thing he and Sherlock could both drink and fully appreciate, heady but almost sweet.
'I'm calling it the "Sherohn"' Sherlock supplied, 'I do believe it fulfils both of our alcoholic preferences in one singular drink. Tell me if there is something you would change about it.' The way that was said made it sound as though he already had full confidence that John would think it was perfect and wouldn't change a thing.
'Sharon?' asked John trying to think back over all the time he had known Sherlock and trying to distinguish a Sharon who stood out to him. As far as he knew there never was anyone they knew by that name.
Sherlock rolled his eyes again and gave john his best 'do-try-not-to-act-like-an-idiot' look.
'Sher-ohn.' He said slower. Willing john to catch on.
'Right. I see.' John nodded before deflating a little to admit that in fact, 'No, no I don't see. What?'
This time Sherlock gestured as he spoke the word, first at himself as he said 'Sher' and then at John as he said 'ohn.'
'"Sherohn"? Like Sherlock and John?' John said, taking another, larger drink from the glass. When Sherlock nodded he felt a twinge of success, even as Sherlock did his obviously face, thoroughly unimpressed. 'I don't like it. Why not… Johock?'
Sherlock grimaced. 'While I understand your need to be superior and have your name first I dislike a drink, named after both of us, sounding like men's underpants. No. What about… Johnlock.'
'John-lock…' John mused.
Really he had just said it to show Sherlock that there was indeed something he would change, but now he spoke it he felt it rolled off the tongue nicer. In fact he quite liked it. Sherlock considered this for a further moment before nodding his head in consent. He walked to his desk, took out a large marker and wrote in big letters j-o-h-n-l-o-c-k on the bottle before placing it on the floor beside John.
He then walked to the TV, placed prominently in the room John noticed, and picked up a selection of DVDs resting near it. He held up a collection of movies, and it was quite the collection. It ranged from John's favourites; the Bond movies, the Bourne trilogy, manly action films, to what he assumed were Sherlock's picks; all classic looking films like Death by Murder, a black and white Frankenstein and something called the Red Violin.
Feeling as though he should be polite about invading Sherlock's home John opted for the violin story. It ended up being quite the tale about a perfect violin whose owners over the course of four centuries all had tragic endings.
As the credits rolled Sherlock rose, plucked his violin from its resting space and began to play the end screen score along with the TV. After watching the movie seeing Sherlock so enraptured by his instrument was truly something to behold. John couldn't help but remember the sad wife, the lonely child and the violin that followed sorrow. Once the film had truly ended though Sherlock started to play something else, something happier and almost magical.
It was definitely nothing John had heard before, however he was certain there were familiar tones to it.
'Composing?' John asked as it came to an end.
Sherlock simply nodded and moved to change the DVD. Once again he consulted John's opinion and this time John chose one of his action flicks. The violin movie had been wonderful; however he just wanted to mindlessly watch people be blown up after that.
John watched casually, Sherlock really had been quite obvious with all his choices and John had already seen every one of them multiple times, but Sherlock himself seemed almost immersed in the movie. He would scoff under his breath at times, remark at the idiocy of film writers and even the misuse of camera angles on the odd occasion, the obviousness of special effects and the poor over acting. Nevertheless he still seemed to be enraptured by the fast moving action scenes playing out in front of him; John thought it was almost cute. Mary would never have sat next to him and watched this film, she would have forced him to watch a chick flick instead, and he hated that.
John shifted and forced himself to stop thinking about it. Perhaps he should have picked one of Sherlock's more brainy films, something more distracting. Seeing Sherlock jump slightly at an explosion and wince with disgust at the terrible makeup job was worth it though.
'Honestly I could have applied better blood make up than that. Look at the way it drips near his eye, not nearly the right consistency.' He sneered.
'I've no doubt you would have done better. Though of course you would have wanted to use the real thing and I'm not sure that's allowed.' John joked back at him. Sherlock the consulting makeup artist kind of had a ring to it.
By the end of the movie they were both 3 more glasses of 'Johnlock' along each. It was surprisingly strong for something that tasted so perfect and Sherlock wobbled on his feet as stood to fetch a bowl of lollies form the kitchen. John giggled (he was tipsy enough that he didn't mind calling it giggling) and followed him up, wobbling slightly himself as he bee-lined towards the bathroom.
He returned to the living room and his spot on the mattress floor near Sherlock; who had turned on some music, all classical pieces, none of that "rubbish" John listened too. They sat in the quiet and listened to the soft concerto in silence for a minute. Both had to lean against the couch behind them a little for support.
'So, Gareth?' Sherlock said slowly, trying to prompt conversation while popping a red candy in his mouth.
'Gareth?' John replied, then as his head caught up to his friend's surprisingly bad habit for someone so observant he corrected, 'Greg, you mean?'
'Yes, yes, him.' Replied Sherlock, clearly annoyed that he had to clarify. He reached for the lolly bowl and selected a handful that were thrown quickly into his mouth.
John sat for a moment looking expectantly at Sherlock to go on with whatever he had to say about the D.I. this time. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to be looking expectantly at John as though it were his job to continue on the conversation. John looked around himself quickly, confused, then back at Sherlock.
'What about Greg?'
'He's a man. He is not wholly stupid. He's approximately one point eight meters in height.' Sherlock said, he seemed to be sorting through his mind palace, listing all the facts he had written under 'Greg'.
'You remember his height but not his name?'
'Yes, well, his name is hardly important. However I may have occasion to know his height in case I must reach somewhere high and you are not there to be boosted up to retrieve whatever it is I need. No doubt he would fail at getting what I really wanted or disturb it in some annoyingly idiotic way, unlike you.'
John warmed a little at the praise, or perhaps the extra mouthful of his drink. He wondered what life had been like for Lestrade before he had been there to temper his mad ex-flatmate, or even, he added sadly, now that he wasn't there as often. Why was everything tonight making him think of how sad he was he no longer lived here?
He thought of Mary's angry yell Maybe you should just go live with your boyfriend. Maybe he should. Maybe he should go back tomorrow, pack his bags and bring all his things back to 221B. Yes, maybe he'd do exactly what Mary said. Well, not the boyfriend bit, that was ridiculous. John stole a glance up at Sherlock, pushing the candies between his lips. He was handsome… and there was no denying that once John had considered himself in love. Sherlock had been dead then though, and he had met Mary and learnt to get over it. Maybe if he moved back in he'd just fall in love all over.
And maybe that was the worst idea he'd ever had. Love Sherlock? That was asking for trouble. Did Sherlock even do feelings? He wasn't sure.
Talking of, Sherlock was sitting there, sipping his drink now, looking at John expecting an answering remark. John settled with 'You should be nicer to Greg.'
Sherlock scoffed and shook his head, 'He should not be so imbecilic. Though I suppose he's not as brainless as Anderson, and he's not as annoying as Mycroft. Or as gullible as Stamford.'
John's shoulders shook as he laughed at Sherlock's apparent distaste of all the men around him. 'Greg's not an imbecile, Stamford's not gullible. As for Mycroft and Anderson, I think you have them summed up pretty well. Do you like anyone?'
'I like you.' Sherlock replied shortly.
John gulped and gazed at Sherlock, openly. Shit. Maybe that feeling he had for Sherlock hadn't been forgotten so much as shoved under the rug, he was starting to feel it rise again. John shook himself internally. What was he crazy? Stop thinking about the frankly gorgeous man in front of you like that. Damn there he went again. He looked accusingly at his tumbler.
'Right, well, uh, good.' John stumbled, 'Why are we talking about Greg again?'
Sherlock looked nervously away from him, 'You're meant to talk about boys at a sleep over.' And before John even had time to correct his socially awkward best friend's mistake Sherlock continued straight on, 'and you're meant to tell secrets. I have your white jumper in my room, near my bed. Also I stole the last piece of Mycroft's birthday cake when I was eight, he still doesn't know it was me. Your turn.'
John stared at Sherlock a touch gobsmacked. The first secret was a little revealing. So that's where his jumper had gone. It had been his favourite, admittedly because Sherlock had always seemed nicer when he wore it. It had gone missing shortly after Sherlock had fallen from Bart's. Had Sherlock had it that long? Realising it was his turn to play the secret game he tried to think of something along the same lines as what Sherlock had said. His thinking really was starting to slow down, perhaps he should stop drinking he thought taking another swallow.
'Well. When Harry and I were kids I stole her jacket and it broke. Put it back in her cupboard and she never knew it was me.' There, was that good enough? It had involved clothes and his sister. Wait, what was he doing? 'Sherlock you know the sleep over you're suggesting isn't the typical type of thing two grown men do right?'
Sherlock scowled and looked confused, 'But I looked it up. "Best friend sleepover". It said about the pizza, the lollies, the movies, talking about boys...'
He cut off as John started laughing. Of course Sherlock had looked it up. Probably watched some Sleepover Club and then hit Google. No wonder he was eating lollies. John wondered if Sherlock had ever had a sleep over before. Probably not; he didn't seem the type to have friends he was close enough to that warranted a sleepover.
'What else was on the agenda then?' John asked, refilling both their (once again) empty glasses.
Sherlock looked at him as though he was trying to decide whether John was asking honestly or if he was going to ridicule him for his misunderstanding. It was easy to see he had enjoyed a bit too much of the alcohol now in the way his eyes squinted. He seemed to decide, John was pleased to see, that he was safe from teasing.
'A few games; Never would I ever and would you rather, though those were supposed to be played after we had a bit more to drink.' He looked at his glass and shrugged, five glasses in and it seemed he had wanted them to drink more. He motioned towards a small pile of magazines 'there were also quizzes and more movies. Also you're not meant to sleep at a sleepover. Absurd. Why call it that then, why not call it a stay over or a wake over.'
That Sherlock giggled at his own alarmingly bad joke was worrying but John couldn't help but join in. They sat and laughed and leaned against the couch. John had to reach out a hand to steady himself which ended up on Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock used the arm as support for his head as he shook. It was awfully nice and domestic and as John realised that he decided he didn't care right this moment.
'Never would I ever,' John started, 'Never would I ever... keep a human head in the fridge'
Sherlock laughed and took a drink in response before starting his own question.
'Never have I ever... shot a cabbie.'
Sherlock laughed, John drank.
'Never have I ever... harpooned a pig'
Sherlock drank.
'Never have I ever gotten married.'
John took a deep breath, sighed, looked at Sherlock as if to say 'what a mistake' and drank.
'Never have I ever been in love.'
Sherlock shuddered slightly and drank, watching as John lifted his cup as well. He could see the questions were taking a more personal twist. John shouldn't have. Now he had Sherlock, with his already lowered knowledge of social conventions, didn't even blink as he asked:
'Never have I ever been in love with a flat mate.'
John gulped. Then he watched as slowly, with purpose, Sherlock brought his glass to his mouth and drank. John made a strange strangled noise and complied, taking a gulp of his drink. This was a bad idea. A bad, bad idea.
'Never have I ever thought this game was a good idea.'
John finished the game by emptying what was left of his drink into his mouth and swallowing quickly. Sherlock let out a disgruntled noise and put his cup on the floor, without drinking. John tried to ignore the disappointment radiating from Sherlock and looked towards the TV. It was probably time for another movie, a chance to clear his mind.
'James Bond?' John suggested weakly.
Sherlock stood up roughly and moved towards the telly to put it on. John marvelled at the way you could see, even in his slightly drunk state, the anger that was in every one of his movements, and the way it still looked so graceful.
When Sherlock returned he sat back down slightly further away than he had been previously. It made John frown a little but really it was for the best. Physical space might be a key player in tonight's game of try-not- to-show-your-best-friend-you-love-him.
The action stated on screen and Sherlock seemed less interested this time. His gaze didn't quite focus on the television until the hero was being held captive by the 'bad guys'. There Sherlock's eyes seemed to sharpen and he twitched a little as Bond was hit repeatedly for information. Sherlock inched closer as the interrogation on screen continued. He cheered (not really but he had a look in his eyes like he had just solved a difficult case so it was close enough) when 007 got free.
There went John's personal space. Sherlock's head was once again resting on John arm. Sherlock had been sipping his drink as they watched and John once again refilled his glass.
'One might think you are attempting to intoxicate me John.' Sherlock said, his eyes not leaving the screen.
'Heh, no need to worry about that. The drink is more for me than you.' John replied with a tight smile.
'You don't want children.' Sherlock said suddenly, 'You don't, Mary does. That is why you're fighting. That is why you're here.'
John chuckled into his glass. Figures Sherlock would pick up on that. No John didn't want kids right not, thank you very much. Between Mary and the clinic he already had less time for Sherlock and his cases than he'd like.
'You missed the part about you.' John said sadly.
'Me?' Sherlock looked away from the TV and twisted his head, still on John's shoulder, to look at John.
'Yea. Mary says I spend too much time over here. Running out on dates and work to work on a case. Says it's not right.' John explained, 'Which is rubbish. I haven't been here in so long there are two new stains on the kitchen table I don't know about-'
'Three.' Sherlock corrected.
'Three new stains. I'm just not ready to forget about all this. Not sure I ever will be.'
John looked down at Sherlock. With his hair perfectly ruffled and his eyes glassy but still magnificent and bright. And his lips. A soft tongue popped out and ran over those cupid bow lips as John watched. It would be so easy to just lean in and- Shit. He was doing it again.
'Hey this next part's my favourite.' John said, looking back towards the screen not knowing what was happening in this part or if it was his favourite at all. Drink, ignore sulky genius, refill, repeat.
As the movie continued they both kept drinking and, as it was getting quite late and Sherlock had just finished a case which had left him sleepless for two days, Sherlock started dozing against John. The end credits rolled and John shifted Sherlock slightly so that he could go to the bathroom once more.
He had to rub his face a bit to keep him awake on his journey to the loo. Perhaps they could ignore Sherlock's no sleeping rule, he was buggered. He quickly washed up and returned to find Sherlock sprawled over most of the mattresses on the floor. He considered going up to his room before pushing aside and slightly waking Sherlock to make room for himself.
'I have another secret.' Said Sherlock sleepily, drawing all of John's attention back as he wiggled closer, 'I love you.'
John started coughing. No. NO. No way had Sherlock bloody Holmes just said that. No. And now Sherlock, who had been asleep two seconds earlier, was looking at him expectantly again. What the hell were you meant to say to that? Sorry Sherlock but I'm not sure you understand what you just said, you're just tired, and if I admit to loving you now I'll be lost forever. No.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'I said I love you, John. I think you should reply. I can tell you love me too. I was so angry when you chose Mary. Here you are though, here with me, you always choose me. Don't deny it.' As he continued his voice got harsher.
Suddenly they both felt quite sober and awake. Sherlock was moving away from docile and adorable and quickly making way towards scathing and unforgiving. Oh, hell! John thought. And against all his better judgment he moved forwards, closing the gap between them and kissed his mad, genius, crazy, ex-housemate, best friend who he loved.
It was quite chaste. Sherlock had been expecting words, not actions, and was unprepared. As soon as connection was made John was pulling back. What was he doing, he was married! But Sherlock caught his face and pulled it back.
It was soft, and then it was hard. It was gentle and then it was needing. It was giving and then it was taking. A constant contradiction, like anything would have to be with Sherlock. Sherlock who was brave yet self-conscious, who was rude but desperately needed affection and who was all at once the smartest man and the stupidest. Sherlock who was John's world.
In that moment John knew that tomorrow morning he was going back home, packing a suitcase, calling the divorce lawyer he'd been eyeing off the last few weeks and moving the hell back into Baker Street. He tried to convey all that in the desperate way his lips worked against Sherlock's. And he could swear that Sherlock understood as the lanky man pushed him back onto the mattress on the floor. Sherlock climbed over john, straddling his hips so he could deepen the kiss further.
He broke away just long enough to say, in a whispered voice, 'Perhaps no sleeping isn't such a bad idea. Welcome home.'