A/N: Hello everyone. I'm so sorry about the other chapters; hopefully, I've managed to fix it now. This is the first fanfiction I ever wrote, so please be nice, but I'd love to hear what you thought about it. Again, I'm really sorry if you've been waiting for this but hopefully the wait was worth it
And. Of course, I don't own Sherlock, if I did Seb would have been in it from series one.
I PROMISE NOT TO LIE
John Watson was sat on his chair in the flat of 221B Baker street, not reading. Nope, he was definitely not reading. There was a book, there were words staring him right in the eye with words that must have made perfect sense to anyone else, they were probably even good words that spelled out an amazing story that John would probably regret not reading, but no matter how hard he tried to his brain simply would not read those words.
He was to busy thinking.
What was he thinking about?
He was thinking about beautiful blue grey eyes that stared into your soul and read you're every mood. He was thinking about cheekbones and a thin strip of a body that stuck out at odd angles but was somehow the most beautiful thing in exestence. He was thinking about shaggy black curls and the way the rain dripped off them in tiny droplets that tempted John and how he would literally kill to run his hands through that hair. He was thinking about the cleverness and coldness yet at the same time the complete vulnerableness that made John want to get closer, to see whatever was behind that asshole mask. He was thinking about lips. Beautiful lips. And how it would feel to push his own against those lips.
John Watson was thinking about Sherlock Holmes. Again.
And he really ought to stop.
See, Sherlock Holmes was amazing and fantastic and beautiful and clever (oh so amazingly clever) but he was also unavailable. Work happened to have a second name in 221B- hell it even wore a ring- and that name was Holmes. Sherlock was married to his work. He had told John so that very first night they had met. Not that John had been asking then. He wanted to ask now though. Problem was that Sherlock just didn't like people. Not romantically. John was actually pretty sure he was asexual. So John could never have Sherlock. No matter how much he thought about it.
Besideshe tried to tell himself he's lazy and has no respect for human life and he does crazy experiments and leaves severed heads in the fridge and seriously would it kill him to do some chores every now and then? Plus he can be plain mean sometime...even if I'm sure it's because he's hiding a broken little boy inside...he really is amazing...and beautiful...and...
"John!" Sherlock called from the kitchen.
Sighing John put his book he hadn't been reading on the arm of the chair to not read later. Speak of the devil...
"What?" John asked.
"Get in here, I need to borrow you."
Oh great. That probably meant John was needed for some experiment. Again. "Say please," he muttered under his breath as he walked into the kitchen.
"What do you want?" John looked at his flatmate from the door, his beautiful, amazing flatmate.
"What did you just mutter?" Sherlock asked.
"Nothing."
"Oh," Sherlock scribbled something down on a piece of paper, "You seem off lately, anything troubling you?"
"No!" John answered a little too quickly and maybe a tiny bit loudly. For once he hoped Sherlock couldn't be great. That he could overlook this and believe the lie.
For a moment he honestly thought Sherlock was going to say something else about it but instead he nodded, "good, good," and continued to scribble on the piece of paper. John had to stop himself from sighing in relief. He'd actually managed to keep something from the consulting detective.
"How's Harry?"
"What?"
"I asked how your sister was," Sherlock looked at John like he was an idiot, "don't make me repeat myself John, you know how I hate it."
"Why do you care?"
Sherlock sighed and put down his pencil, meeting John's gaze and seemingly begging the answer out of him.
"Fine. She's fine."
Sherlock gave John a quick smile which made John's pulse rocket and picked up his pencil again to continue writing, "I was wondering if you could tell me where my nicotine patches are John."
"No, you are not having any more of them." John said firmly.
"Thought that was a bit of a long shot," Sherlock sighed and pointed at the side, "I made you some tea."
John stared blankly at the steaming cup at the side as if it was some kind of fairy that had just popped out of the air, "You did what?"
"I made you tea, John."
Ever since John had moved into 221B he had never known Sherlock to ever make him anything. Sherlock Holmes was a selfish git. End of. He didn't do things for other people unless they benefited himself, even little things like cooking dinner or making tea.
"You didn't poison it did you?" John asks inspecting the brownish liquid as he picked up the cup.
"Don't be ridiculous John, Why would I want to drug you?" he looked at John with those big grey eyes, his floppy black hair falling into his face. He looked, to John's eyes, just so damn lovable.
Taking the tea John drank it slowly, letting the warm liquid pour soothingly into his body. It was actually quite nice and John felt his body relaxing as he pulled one of the kitchen chairs out from under the table and dropped lazily onto it.
"So what was it that you muttered earlier again John?" Sherlock asked.
"Oh I just said say please," John answered automatically.
"Right," John had closed his eyes for a moment but he could hear the scribble of pencil and paper from Sherlock's side of the table.
"And how's Harry?" Sherlock's voice filled John's head.
"She was admitted to hospital again last week, drunk her body into oblivion. She's going to need a kidney operation if she hopes to live."
"I'm sorry," John heard sherlock say softly from the other side of the table.
"And the nicotine patches?"
John's eyes blinked open. Did Sherlock really expect John to tell him that? John wouldn't hurt Sherlock. Ever. There was no way he would tell his flatmate anything about the drugs that he wanted. He opened his mouth to tell Sherlock to stop asking and found himself saying "Upstairs, in my pillow case, seemed only logical as I'm pretty sure you're allergic to beds."
"Wonderful!" Sherlock smiled as he began scribbling frantically.
God, why had John said that? Why had John said any of that? Realization dawned on him and he felt like smacking his best friend into oblivion, "You DID drug me!" John accused.
Sherlock grinned mischievously up at John, his eyes lighting up, "It was just an experiment John. I knew it was possible to make a concoction that would force the recipient to tell the truth! This is wonderful! Do you know what this means for the future of law John?! It's revolutionary! No one lies! Criminals will have to admit to the crimes they committed!"
"But you drugged me!" John shouted, "Did you even know you had it right! I could be dead! I could be poisoned! Sherlock Holmes!"
Sherlock sighed and took the drugged cup from John's hands, "but you aren't, you're perfectly fine, you're just unable to lie."
That wasn't the point, that wasn't the point at all. Wait...what had sherlock just said?
Unable to lie...
Oh shit. This was really very very very bad. What if Sherlock accidently asked something that lead to a confession of feelings? Oh this was not good. Very, very not good. John could feel the heat flooding his cheeks.
"Oh, that's interesting!" Sherlock smiled in delighted in something.
"What?" John asked.
"You are hiding something! You're cheeks have heated and you looked positively alarmed when I just pointed out you couldn't lie! Then there's the fact that you got all angry when you figured it out! You're scared I'll ask you something that you don't want me to know."
John stood mutely, unable to open his mouth. Oh god, was Sherlock just going to ask what he was hiding? That couldn't happen. If Sherlock knew... god John might have to move out or something. Plus, the obvious embarrassment it would inflict on both of them when Sherlock was unable to give John love back.
"How long will this last?" John stammered, trying to change the subject.
Sherlock shrugged.
"Oh for shits sake, Sherlock!" John cried out, "This really isn't fair! You drugged me without my permission, you now have me in the position that I can't lie to you and you didn't even know if this drug would work!"
Very slowly Sherlock lifted the drink to his lips and took a sip of the truth drug, "Ok is it fair now?" He asked.
John just stood staring at the idiocy of his flatmate.
"I was 99% certain it would not kill you," Sherlock assured him when John showed no sign of breaking the silence.
"That's not good enough!" John shouted, snapping as he stood up and began to pase around the room "God, Sherlock! What if that one percent had happened and I had died? Would you even care if I did, or would you just go out and find yourself another blogger and someone to experiment on? Do you even care about me at all?" the question was loaded and John wasn't really thinking when he asked it. He was just ranting.
In the silence that followed John realised Sherlock was going to have to answer. Truthfully.
There was an uncomfortable look on Sherlock's face as he figereted in his seat and said quietly, "Of course I would care, of course I care about you," he looked up meeting Johns brownish eyes, "how can you even ask that?"
John was at a loss. Not really what he had expected. Still Sherlock only cared about him in a friend way, John was sure. So Sherlock could still never know how John felt. Despite this he felt the words on his tongue about to answer the question Sherlock asked. The answer to any question sherlock asked.
"You don't always act like you do."
"Oh," Sherlock looked down.
"Look, Sherlock," John said after a minute, "maybe we shouldn't speak to each other until this wears off."
"No way!" Sherlock smiled, suddenly losing his silence and replacing it with avid enhusiasum "I want to know what your hiding, John Watson. And seen as you won't tell me in your normal state, I figured you might be forced to say now."
John's eyes widened, "come on, Sherlock. Don't do that, please."
For a moment John thought Sherlock would agree, get up and walk out of the room. Then everything could go back to normal later on, after the truth drug had left there systems.
He had no such luck. That had just been very wishful thinking.
"I think we should play a game!" Sherlock declared.
"A game?"
"Yes a game! We ask each other questions, starting at less private and working up. It will be great, and the best thing is that it will help with my reserch into this as well, see what the results are if the questions are more personal"
"And how do you win?" John heard himself ask.
"Whoever gets the best answer, I suppose," Sherlock shrugged.
"No," John crossed his arms over his chest. This was far to dangrous ground to be walking on.
"Fine, I'll just ask you what's going on right now and then you'll have to tell me anyway. I believe that way would be quicker but you would find it unfair or something. This way you get to find out my secrets too."
Well shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Sherlock had left John with no choice. Play the game and maybe avoid the question or keep it going until the drug wore off or tell him here and now. Sherlock's amazing eyes were on him, gloating. He knew he'd won. John sighed and pulled up a chair so he was facing Sherlock.
"The game is on, Mr Holmes."
Sherlock smiled that amazing way that made his face light up and made John's pulse rocket. Oh. My. Shit. This was bad. This was very, extremely not good. What had he gotten himself into now?