A/N: Just a little fic - will probably be 3 or 4 chapters - because apparently I cannot work on just one thing at a time. Sucker for punishment. Anyway, hope you enjoy.
The first time Sherlock noticed it was in Dartmoor. To be fair, it would have been hard to miss.
As they had approached the inn, all thoughts of the possibility of HOUND being an acronym and the chance of a small but, perhaps significant, breakthrough were forgotten as his eyes fell on the shockingly tanned Detective Inspector grinning inanely at him from behind a ridiculous pair of sunglasses. He was clearly checking up on them, sent by Mycroft presumably, and Sherlock felt a sense of rage coursing through him at the obvious nannying.
"What the hell are you doing here?!" he bellowed, storming in through the slightly-too-low doorway and glaring at the unwelcome guest, eyes raking up and down, intending to be intimidating. But Lestrade didn't seem bothered, removing his shades and sighing.
"Oh, nice to see you too. I'm on holiday, would you believe," he tried, but Sherlock scoffed.
"No, I wouldn't," he replied, as John finally followed him in, glancing up at Lestrade and smiling. Sherlock caught the look between the two men and was temporarily sidetracked, and vaguely registered John calling him "Greg" in response to Lestrade's greeting.
He had obviously directed a question Sherlock's way, as he was now looking at him expectantly. Sherlock quickly banished his thoughts to the back of his mind, refusing to examine them at that point, and, to hide his momentary lapse in concentration, shot back at Lestrade with another demand as to why he was there.
"I've told you, I'm on holiday."
"You're brown as a nut! You're clearly just back from your holiday!" Sherlock exclaimed.
"Well, maybe I fancied another one," he retorted.
Sherlock snapped then. "This is Mycroft, isn't it?" He didn't wait to listen to Lestrade's protestations, but bulldozered over them. "Of course it is. One mention of Baskerville and he sends down my handler to spy on me, incognito. Is that why you're calling yourself Greg?"
Then John, silent up until this point, interjected, a slightly annoyed look on his face. "Sherlock, that's his name!"
Sherlock blinked. "Is it?"
The conversation continued, with John having a brainwave over how "Greg" could help them, and Sherlock casually but surreptitiously drugging John's coffee (all very necessary for the case, obviously). After the two men running the hotel had been spoken to, Lestrade loped off to find a local police officer. Sherlock watched as John's eyes followed the D.I as he moved away, and didn't fail to notice his eyes becoming ever so slightly unfocused - something that probably would have been missed by anyone who wasn't looking.
Eventually managing to tear his eyes away, John turned back to Sherlock, smiling slightly. "He's right, isn't he? It's nice... the three of us here, outside London?"
Sherlock eyed him coolly. "I can always disappear if you like, leave you and Greg to solve this one yourself. Wouldn't want to be a third wheel," he snapped, before stalking off, not looking back at his rather confused friend who, after a few seconds, dutifully followed him.
Back in London, Sherlock continued to observe the interactions between his blogger and the D.I. There was nothing obvious between them, and Sherlock was fairly sure there was nothing going on at all, but he couldn't help noticing the way that both of them looked at each other when they thought no one else was watching. He picked up on a slight sigh escaping one of the other's lips, a tug of a shirt collar, an unnecessary giggle at a poorly-constructed joke. It baffled him to see the man who he had been led to believe was completely and utterly heterosexual go weak at the knees around the very much male Lestrade.
He quickly realised that he was not present at most of John and Greg's social interactions - in the pub, watching football or playing pool. Sitting at the kitchen table, he drummed his fingers against the wooden panels, weighing up in his mind whether it would be worth entering such an establishment to further his observations. He briefly wondered whether John would maybe be alarmed at his request to join him for one of their drinking sessions, but then quickly decided that he didn't much care whether he would be or not. The only question was, whether this was interesting enough to warrant him making such a sacrifice.
The answer quickly made itself known - yes, it was most certainly interesting enough. It was John after all, and the two men had established that they were now friends back at Dartmoor. It was perfectly reasonable for Sherlock to take an interest in the type of people that John was attracted to, wasn't it?
He didn't have much time to ponder on that, as John chose that very minute to appear from the bathroom, dressed casually and clearly ready for a night of drinking. He was wearing slightly-too-strong aftershave and his clothing screamed "football night". Some international match, clearly, judging by the time. Suppressing an inner shudder at the thought of 90 minutes of tedium for the chance to further his 'investigation', Sherlock glanced up at his friend, who was clearly just about to announce his immediate departure.
"I'm coming too, give me two minutes."
John gaped at him like a goldfish, a look that Sherlock found briefly amusing and then rapidly vapid. Shaking his head slightly, John apparently remembered how to form sentences, as he stuttered "b..but you... but it's football! Conversation! Other... people!"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I am aware of the concept, John."
His friend's eyes suddenly hardened. "You're not going to embarrass me, or... or drug me again, are you?"
He rolled his own eyes. "John, how many times? It was for an experiment, and I think you've made it perfectly clear that drugging you is in your A Bit Not Good column, so I will endeavour to make sure that I don't do it again."
John muttered something about endeavouring not being bloody good enough, but his shoulders relaxed a little and he didn't look so concerned, nodding his agreement that he would wait for Sherlock to get ready.
"But you've got quite literally two minutes Sherlock, the game starts soon!"
Sherlock was ready in a matter of seconds, having only to remove the dressing gown that was covering the outfit he had already put on in anticipation of going out that night. When he returned into the main living area, he noted John's eyebrows rise astonishingly high, taking in his unusually casual attire.
"Will this not do?" he asked haughtily, checking himself quickly in the mirror.
John shook his head slowly, before gracing Sherlock with a quick smile. "No, no, it's fine," he assured him. "I've just... I don't think I've ever seen you wearing jeans before."
Sherlock huffed. "It's hardly a massive revelation John. Surely you must have known that even I own a pair of denim trousers? I would estimate that a significant majority of the population do."
"Just because a significant majority do something, it has absolutely no basis on whether you do it," John pointed out, grabbing his coat from the back of a chair and following Sherlock down the stairs. "You hate the majority. In fact, you hate everyone."
The consulting detective grabbed his own coat from the hook and glanced at John as he arrived at the bottom step. "Not quite everyone, John," he smiled, giving his friend a quick wink before opening the front door with a flourish, completely missing the bemused look on the doctor's face.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The tedium had reached almost unbearable levels, and Sherlock had gained no new information from the past thirty minutes. Thirty minutes - was that really all it had been?
He and John had arrived a couple of minutes before Lestrade, and were already seated with their drinks (beer for John, orange juice for Sherlock) when the detective inspector joined them. He had made a ridiculous deal out of the fact that Sherlock was there, but didn't appear to mind (not that Sherlock would have cared either way) and was quick to fetch his own pint from the bar before sitting down opposite John, grinning at them both.
"How'd you manage to drag him out then?" he asked John, after they had sat through most of the first half of the game, Sherlock beginning to wonder if he would get away with just getting up and walking out of the pub.
John glanced at Sherlock, before turning back to his friend. "I didn't," he replied honestly. "He asked to come."
Sherlock sighed. "Beginning to wonder why I bothered," he complained, staring dolefully at his empty glass, but not bothering to go and get another. "Is this all you do, just sit and watch 22 overpaid idiots kick a ball around for an hour and a half?"
"Whilst checking out the ladies," Lestrade grinned, raising an eyebrow at John as he drained his pint. "Isn't that right, John?"
"Hmm," John said, smiling slightly.
Sherlock's ears pricked up, but he said nothing, waiting to see if any information would be forthcoming.
"Of course, Dr. Watson tends to be more broad-minded these days," Greg chuckled, and Sherlock noted the angry, slightly embarrassed look he received for that remark.
"Is that so?" Sherlock ventured, eyes travelling between Annoyed John and Guilty Lestrade.
"Ah, sorry John," Greg muttered, motioning towards his glass. "Drink must've loosened my tongue. I'll, err, go and get myself a soft drink, I think."
The air felt tense once the detective had disappeared to the bar, and Sherlock hummed, tapping the fingers of one hand on his other arm and being careful not to look at John, sensing his embarrassment. He was surprised when his friend cleared his throat and began to talk.
"Look, I didn't not tell you for any particular reason," he said. "I just... I guess I liked having one thing in my life as a secret from you, and you didn't appear to have deduced it at any point. There's no conspiracy, it's just... having a little privacy, I guess."
Sherlock coughed and then turned to face John, who was staring into his half-drunk pint, looking slightly troubled. "So, you're.."
"Bisexual."
"Ah." Sherlock nodded, quickly storing that new piece of information in his 'John Room', and then pausing to briefly examine the fact that John had his own room in his mind palace. It wasn't that surprising, he figured - after all, John was his only, true, friend. There needed to be some way of distinguishing him from, say, Lestrade (who had a cupboard) and Mycroft (matchbox).
He realised that John had started talking again, and quickly set about returning his attention to him.
"... I tend to favour women, but recently..." John inhaled slightly and then exhaled. "Things have changed."
Sherlock nodded. "I had begun to notice actually, John. You really should have realised by now that you can't keep things from me. I've seen how you and Gavin are together."
John quirked an eyebrow. "Gavin?"
"Lestrade."
"Greg."
"Whatever. See, you even remember his name."
John laughed. "Remembering someone's name is not an indication that you fancy them, Sherlock," he huffed, and Sherlock noticed that his blogger seemed suddenly far more relaxed. "Greg is lovely, and definitely attractive, but he's not my type."
"Oh." Sherlock thought for a minute, raking back over the conversation. John said that things had changed recently, from wanting women to, presumably, being more attracted to men. A man. Not Greg. Then...
"Everything okay?" Lestrade asked, sitting back down with them and smiling hesitantly. "I didn't cause any major problems, did I?"
"No, course not," John said hurriedly, sipping at his pint. Sherlock stood, shoving his hands in his pockets, and squeezed out from the table, brushing past John, retrieving his jacket as he went.
"I should... probably get home just now," he muttered, carelessly throwing the jacket over his shoulders. "Catch you later." He ignored both men's questions as he slinked away from them and towards the door, suddenly desperate for some air.
Please review if you would be so kind. They give me energy.
