John came home later than intended, towing his shopping behind him. He had had another row with his arch-nemesis: The Chip-and-Pin machine. That actually said a lot about the doctor's problems over Sherlock's: John was fighting benign robots and Sherlock was facing insane though brilliant criminal masterminds. It did little for John's ego.
He grumbled as he pushed open the door of 221B Baker Street with the tip of his foot, making sure not to jar the milk that was teetering slowly out of a bag.
He got in without issue, and made his way immediately for the kitchen, wanting to give his arms a good rest after that arduous trek up the short flight of stairs. He opened the fridge to put the milk away, and was not as shocked as he should have been to see a male human's thigh taking up all of the space on the bottom rack.
"Sherlock…" He grumbled, and placed the milk above and as far away the hunk of flesh as possible. He looked back down at the pile of groceries on the floor and felt the aching fatigue in his body and decided no. No, he could wait until later, or let his flatmate do them. He sighed, wishing that there was at least a 10% chance of that outcome. The detective barely even thought of eating—much less committing to the act— until John reminded him.
John turned around to face the living room, and noticed there was a woman sitting in his usual chair, facing the window. John's eyes met the back of her curly brown haired head. The doctor's brain stalled. He thought she must be a client, but then, they did those in the mornings and Sherlock usually told him about the meetings beforehand. Furthermore, why hadn't she made her presence known when John had first entered the flat?
"Excuse me," John said tentatively, clearing his throat.
The woman didn't even flinch.
"Ma'am, excuse me?" John's brow creased.
The woman turned her head slightly, though not enough to fully see her profile. John could tell she was wearing bright red lipstick, and her upper eyelids held a bluish twinge to them. The sandy-haired man gasped.
"Irene Adler?" He said breathlessly; it was more of a statement than a question.
The woman simply chuckled, and turned her head back around.
John felt the rage rising in his stomach.
"You—you did it again! He thought you had died for the second time!" He yelled, marching over, "God, do you even know what effect you have on Sher—"He stopped when he came to face the woman, and his clenched fists unfurled slowly as his eyes widened to a comical degree.
The woman sat poised with a straight back, her legs crossed and her hands in her lap clasped daintily. She was indeed wearing red lipstick and blue eyeliner, but this was not Irene Adler. Her ice-blue eyes flicked coyly up to John and down again, and a sly smirk grew on her impossibly full lips. Her head was turned at an angle still, and he noted the perfection of her upturned nose. She was slender, with a plentiful bosom contained by a deep purple blouse that rose above her cleavage. Atop this was a long, dark, elegant pea-coat, flaring out at the bottom to emphasize her waist. She wore black see-through tights underneath a black skirt hidden away in her coat, and her legs ended in a sophisticated pair of black heels. John noted how big the feet were, but all he could think was this woman is breathtaking. And John really wasn't breathing at the sight of her.
She had to be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in the whole of England. In the whole of the world actually, and her timidity just increased his attraction to her. He suddenly didn't care if there was a stranger in his flat, he only cared that he might have a chance with this entrancing woman. He had known her for exactly 16 seconds, and he thought he was in love.
Then she spoke.
It was really a very nice voice. Rich, seductive, with an edge of cleverness barely held back.
It was deep too.
And suddenly it was horrifyingly familiar. So was the blue scarf that he had failed to notice before.
John suddenly felt very ashamed for the allure that sent his nerve endings into a flux of steaming desire. He quelled it as quick as he could, but his brain still saw what it wanted to, and he damned the sex-drive he normally found fortunate.
The woman—no man, no¬—flatmate—laughed in his normal tenor at John's expression. John felt heat rising to his cheeks at a combustible temperature, displacing the warmth that had resided in his stomach mere moments before.
John let out a squeak that sounded marginally like "Sherlock".
"Yes?" The man said with a straight face, feigning expectancy, and then confusion and concern. "John, are you all right? It looks like you've just had a rather big shock. Need a blanket?" He let go of all pretenses and laughed deep and slow as John stared at him. The doctor was reminded of the time he had been in Buckingham palace, with Sherlock wearing only a—oh god. Kittens, think of kittens getting their heads squashed under tyres.
John promptly threw a newspaper at his head. Sherlock still laughed, forcing his voice into a higher pitch, successfully creeping the absolute shit out of his flatmate.
"Seriously Sherlock, why the hell…" John trailed off and gestured his hand at Sherlock before pushing it through his hair. His heart was racing like he had just run after a criminal, except this was much worse, and a whole truckload of scarier. Besides feeling horrified, John also felt something very close to loss. He put that feeling aside for the time being.
Sherlock just winked at him, taking on a flawless feminine air, and John could do nothing but turn away and put a hand over his face. He heard a woman—no, Sherlock, its Sherlock damn it—sigh, and decided he may just never turn around. He would live like a statue. It would be fine, everything would be all fine.
He groaned and turned back around.