"Yoo hoo!"
John heard Mrs. Hudson knock on their door, of course while opening it at the same time, and perked up. Finally he had someone to interact with. Sherlock had been prone all day on the couch, his hands together under his chin, with barely any sign of being alive. John had been able to cope with it for a while, but it was getting dull. At one point, he'd simply sat there and studied his utterly mad flatmate, transfixed by his ability to just not move. John was almost hypnotized by the steady rise and fall of Sherlock's chest.
"In the kitchen," he called out to her. She came around the corner, not even looking concerned at getting no reaction from Sherlock.
"Got your mail for you, since I was coming up," she explained, presenting a few envelopes and placing them on the table.
"Oh, thanks," John smiled at her, "would you like a cuppa? I was about to make another one."
"Thank you dear, but I best be getting back to my show," she chuckled to herself, "rushed home so I wouldn't miss it."
John escorted Mrs. Hudson to the door, but she stopped short.
"Have I interrupted something?" Mrs. Hudson asked.
"No, no," John smiled at her, "Sherlock is just cataloging some inane facts he learned from a book about…plants or something." An annoyed groan emitted from the sofa.
"Botanical knowledge been an asset in finding critical evidence for multiple cases," Sherlock informed them, "cases that decided whether a man lived or died. Never underestimate the value of foliage."
"I wouldn't doubt you," John conceded, "though only you would be able to properly apply that to a case."
Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh, "I know."
Mrs. Hudson shook her head, "I'll let you two be," she said and then made her way back to her flat.
"See you later, Mrs. Hudson," John waved pleasantly. He closed the door and rounded on Sherlock, putting his hands on his hips, meaning to confront him about his atrocious behavior to their wonderful landlady. However, Sherlock was an unmoving statue on the couch. He was stupidly picturesque. John was a little jealous that Sherlock could look like a Greek sculpture while being the biggest prick in the world.
"Should I just get the mail, then?" John said pointlessly, going back to the letters. Sherlock made a noncommittal noise. Good; at least he might move today.
John sipped his tea and pushed the mail apart on the table, using what little room was left on the surface.
"Letter from our last client," he called to the living room.
"Probably a thank you," Sherlock said, "nothing of interest."
John tucked it away safely, just in case. It was a habit he had picked up after Sherlock had, in succession, deleted three of his blog drafts. His excuse was that the cases had been boring.
"A few bills," John said.
"Leave them under my door," Sherlock instructed, as if John didn't already know.
One envelope seemed a bit foreign. John pushed away the bills and then picked up the strange looking one. It took him half a second to read the outside before he figured out what it was.
"Oh, God," he mumbled.
"Hmm?"
John ripped the top open and pulled the envelope out and whined.
"What is it?" Sherlock asked a little louder.
"Nothing, just…" John trailed off as his eyes skimmed the paper, confirming his suspicions, "looks like they found me."
"Who? What's wrong?" Sherlock questioned.
"25th Annual school reunion," John told him, "they must have got wind that I was home and got my address."
"I don't recall you being summoned to such a frivolous event before," Sherlock mused, his tone bland and disinterested, but John knew better.
"Haven't gotten an invite since before they shipped me out. I didn't report being home so I got lucky the last few years. They probably knew I was back, but didn't want to bother with it since I hadn't gone to any of the other ones." John had walked back towards the living room to talk to Sherlock. He leaned against the doorframe.
"Why invite you to this one?"
"It's the 25th. Sort of unique, I guess."
Sherlock made a noise of protest. Then, instead of getting off the couch like a normal person, proceeded to roll over and fall off of it. He landed on the floor with a rather comical thud and then pushed himself onto his hands and knees. By this point, John was quietly chuckling to himself as Sherlock used the table as leverage to stand up. Seeing John's amused expression made Sherlock narrow his eyes suspiciously.
"What?"
"Nothing, nothing," John smirked and walked back into the kitchen.
"What sort of event is it, exactly?" Sherlock questioned, sauntering in behind John.
"It's a school reunion. You know; friends from the same graduating class getting together? Talking about all those shared memories and all that?"
Sherlock responded by raising an eyebrow and dragging himself around the kitchen. He was practically throwing his limbs about, a physical sign of being annoyed that he had to move at all. John felt another small pang of envy. Even acting like a bratty man-child, Sherlock was more graceful than anyone had a right to be.
"I doubt you've ever been to one of these sort of things before," John continued, "but you have to have heard about it."
"It sounds incredibly dull. I most likely—"
"—deleted it," John finished simultaneously, "of course."
They said nothing for the next few minutes as Sherlock made himself tea and John set his mind to reading the paper. A calm, gentle quiet came over the flat and both men found themselves in a relaxed state.
"Are you going to attend?" Sherlock asked sometime later.
John lifted his head up to give Sherlock a confused look.
"To the reunion?"
"Obviously."
John shrugged, "I don't know. I mean, it might be nice to see some of my old mates from back then. I'd get to see what they're up to, but…"
"But?"
"Well, it's kind of like a competition, isn't it? It's like you literally go back to schoolyard mentality of who has the best toys. Except now it's who has the best car, the best house, best job, hottest wife and all that. It can be brutal."
"And what is won from having all the best things?"
John thought about it, "I don't know. Pride? Bragging rights?"
"Nothing of any value at all, then."
That made John really stop and think, "No, I guess not. It's just hard to brag about being single, unemployed, and living in a flatshare with another single, unemployed bloke."
When Sherlock didn't respond, John looked up to see Sherlock staring at him.
"What?"
"Go."
"What?" John repeated.
"I say go. Why not? Go revisit some memories of your better years, or whatever."
John didn't really see the point, but it wasn't like he had anything better to do.
"Yeah, I think I will."
It wasn't until several hours later while he was settling into bed that Sherlock came into his room.
"It says you are allowed a plus one. I'll be sure to keep the date clear so that I may attend with you."
If John hadn't been so taken aback, he might have argued. A school reunion was bad enough. With Sherlock, it was bound to be a disaster.
OOOOO
To John's total bewilderment, the night was going well. He was glad to see his old mates and they were getting along like they hadn't missed a day. Fred was an accountant with two kids and a nasty divorce. Jeff was travelling solo, but he'd brought along his girlfriend from Hawaii. Ken was happily married with a fifth child on the way.
And Sherlock was not being himself in any sense of the word. In fact, he was being downright normal.
His entire persona had shifted. From the moment he walked into the room, Sherlock ceased being his usual self and acted just like all of the rest of the men. He was a mate. He was talking to John like Lestrade would at a pub. It was a bit terrifying. But soon enough, Sherlock was shaking the hands of all his old buddies and laughing with them.
He was a different person entirely. What weirded John out was that he didn't like him this way at all. But for tonight, it was okay with him.
"So what about you, Johnny?" Ken burst out at one point.
"Eh?"
"What are you up to these days?"
They'd already gone through all the lists of the three men's successes and conquests. John had been careful about not talking about himself, but this had been inevitable.
Before he could say a word, Sherlock cut him off.
"John? Are you kidding?" Sherlock said, sounding shocked (a clear sign he wasn't Sherlock at all), "Besides being a war hero, catching dangerous criminals for Scotland Yard, being the best doctor in all of England, and putting up with my sorry arse? He also makes a damn good cuppa."
The three men laughed at Sherlock's witty comeback but they looked impressed.
"Wow! Have you really been doing all that?" Fred asked.
"He makes it sound more glamorous than it is," John tried.
"No, you're just too modest!" Sherlock patted him on the back and John thought he was losing his mind.
"I guess it still seems unbelievable that you don't have a girl on your arm." Ken said.
"What with all the girls you had in high school," Fred nudged John in the side with his elbow.
Sherlock cocked his head to the side and didn't bother fighting off an amused smirk.
"Oh? Had a lot of girlfriends, did he?"
"Oh, I wouldn't call them that," Ken sniggered.
"He didn't have girlfriends. He had bitches!"
"Back in the day, John was a serious ladies man."
"Really now?" Sherlock encouraged, despite John giving him a look to shut up.
"Hell yeah! Total perfect gentleman by day—"
"Lady-killing beast-in-bed by night!"
Sherlock seemed to fumble a bit, "Is that so?"
"Oh yeah. Girls would whisper all the time about Johnny 'Red Pants' Watson."
John watched as Sherlock's face suddenly shifted and he realized that Sherlock was back to being himself. For some reason, this seemed very bad.
"Red…pants?"
"I don't think we should—" John tried, but the boys kept at it.
"Red pants! The girls would say if he took you out to dinner, he would lean over so you could see just the top of his pants."
"If they were red, you were in for a wild night."
"And we definitely heard he was wild."
"Girls couldn't get enough of him!"
"Talked him up real good!"
"He kept them coming!"
At this point, the innuendos didn't stop for another five minutes. John stood there, mortified. Sherlock had dropped his mask. His expression was unreadable. It looked a bit like equal mortification, but there was something underneath it. He was looking at John in a way he never had before. It made him feel hot under his collar. It was almost as if Sherlock was deducing him. Then it hit him: he was being catalogued. New information had been added and, unlike everything else, Sherlock had no idea what to do with it. John and Sherlock quietly realized a new vein in their friendship had been opened.
The vein in which John was a damned sex god and it was affecting Sherlock in a way that was making both of them feel awkward without any solid reason to.
It was only an hour later when John felt it was time to duck out. Neither he nor his flatmate had been very involved in the conversations that had followed.
Goodbyes and fake promises of future get-togethers were exchanged alongside handshakes and man hugs. Sherlock, having dropped his façade, abandoned the room almost instantly and was waiting by an open cab when John exited.
The ride home was silent. When they got back to the flat, Sherlock removed his coat and immediately went off into his room.
John didn't know what had happened, but he'd never been so glad to see a day end.
OOOOO
"What sort of pants were they?"
The unidentified tension was still there. Sherlock wouldn't meet his eyes most days and yet suddenly that question had popped out.
"What?"
"The red pants. What type were they?"
John just blinked at him, "What the hell does that matter?"
"I asked you a question."
"I'm not answering."
"John, it is in your best interest if you do…"
John shook his head and ignored the ridiculous question. He continued to ignore it, tuning Sherlock out entirely.
Too little too late, he found this to be a mistake.
He was reading a book (one Molly had suggested called The Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time that had a main character that made John feel a bit protective) when suddenly there was a flash of red dangling in front of his face.
"These?"
John just sputtered, blinking a few times. There were red boxers being held between Sherlock's thumb and fore-finger and being shoved right in his face. He leaned away quickly.
"Do you mind?"
"Are these like the ones you wore?"
Unbelieving, John shook his head slightly, "Sherlock, no they're not but what the hell—"
"Thank you," Sherlock interrupted and then seemed to fly out of the room. John blinked rapidly again and just ran his hand over his face.
A few days later, John came home from a night out with Lestrade and Sherlock was sitting in his chair. He was unusually still, but when John crossed the threshold, Sherlock's arm lifted and he threw something at him. John flinched, not expecting the attack, but caught the ball of red cloth. When he unfurled it, he saw a new pair of red underwear.
"Sherlock, what are you playing at?"
"Are they the ones?"
"No, they're not. What are you—"
But Sherlock darted out the room just as hurriedly as he had before.
The next day, John went downstairs to make breakfast. He was so tired that he almost didn't notice the red pants hanging on the handle of the fridge.
He groaned, "Sherlock!"
"Yes or no?"
John whipped around, noting the proximity of Sherlock's voice. Sure enough, Sherlock was standing less than a foot behind him and now he was far too close. The sound of Sherlock's breathing was loud in his ears.
"What?"
"Yes," Sherlock swiped the pants from John's fingers and held them up, "or no?"
John set his jaw defiantly, "No."
An annoyed groan emitted from Sherlock's throat and he let his head fall back for a second before turning and walking out of sight.
John stood there, feeling steadily hotter, before he found himself able to move.
And so it continued for the next three months. Everything would be normal (not counting the physically heavy tension that came about when there was too much silence) and then John would find a pair of red pants somewhere and Sherlock would ask him if they were the right ones. So far, there had been fifteen pairs of variously styled red pants and Sherlock was becoming visibly frustrated with each "no" that John provided. John would usually roll his eyes at all of it, writing it off as Sherlock being Sherlock, but it was a highly personal inquiry and the places he was finding the red pants was getting downright ludicrous.
He'd gone to make tea only to find a pair of pants placed inside of the kettle. There was one stuck to the mirror when he'd gone to the loo. One pair had been slipped inside his laptop. Once he'd found one wrapped around the end of his phone charger, hidden under the bed. One had been taped to the lid of the toilet.
It had gotten to the point that when he pulled a pair from the egg carton he simply walked into the living room and thrown them at Sherlock with a casual "no" over his shoulder and Sherlock had just made a noise of bafflement.
"There are only so many styles! How is this possible?"
John had shrugged and continued about his day.
There was one in his pillowcase, one in his copy of Harry Potter (the DVD case), and a particularly memorable pair that had slid between the pages of his book.
"Sherlock, these are women's pants!" John had yelled, holding the panties up in the air.
Suddenly, Sherlock was behind him, his hand covering up John's as he caressed the red lace between John's fingers. He wasn't pressed against John, but John could feel him. If Sherlock moved only an inch, he would be right up on him (and John hated the fact that his inner thoughts supplied the description cock-to-arse but it was there). Sherlock's head slid in between John's raised arm and John's cheek and he sighed.
"Just checking to see if I'd missed a detail," he explained in a low, quiet voice. Then, just as quickly as he'd appeared, he was gone and John had to remember how to breathe.
Get a grip, Watson.
After a few more findings and denials (one hung in his closet, a pair squashed in the couch, and one in his bedside drawer by his gun) a case had come about and John took this to be the end of his troubles, if not an ample distraction.
He was wrong.
John was in the shower, getting ready to head out to Scotland Yard when a pair had been tossed over the curtain. This, of course scared John half to death and he flinched and threw the curtain open to attack when he noticed Sherlock's stunned expression and his eyes caught the hint of red darkening in the water at his feet.
"Damn it, Sherlock!" he yelled, but he could have said anything and Sherlock wouldn't have heard. He was very obviously too busy taking in the entirety of John's body. His eyes were doing that thing that John knew to be cataloguing and it was all too clear which part Sherlock was currently focused on. John went red and then pulled the curtain back.
"Seven," he heard from the other side.
"What?"
"No, then?"
"N—no," John said, picking up the soaked knickers. He pulled back the curtain again (modesty be damned) and tossed them at Sherlock, who caught them without looking, his eyes concentrated elsewhere.
"And a half."
"What?!"
"Nothing," Sherlock said and then ran out of the room.
OOOOO
"That's it!" John said once they'd gotten back to the flat.
"What?" Sherlock asked innocently.
"What the hell are you doing this for?"
"I'm not sure—"
"Shut up! You know damn well! The red pants! Everywhere! You've been leaving them all over the flat!"
"I am aware."
"It was fine. It's been annoying as hell, but it's kept to the flat. That was absolutely humiliating!" John put his head in his hands for a moment before snapping back up, "I cannot imagine what people are saying!"
"Who cares?"
"I do, Sherlock!" John yelled back, "I care very much! Hiding the pants in my coat pocket? You know I only wear that when I go out and no matter where I discovered them, it would have been embarrassing. But at Scotland Yard…"
"Does that even…"
"…to have them found not by me, but by Anderson…"
"…matter?"
"…and THEN, when I thought it could not possibly get worse…"
"Honestly, people are stupid…"
"…YOU decide to say 'sorry, those are mine'…"
"…so why do you even care?"
"…which is going to make everything we'd just come from a romp outside and you'd left your bloody knickers in my coat!"
"John, honestly, you know your sexuality—"
"It's not just about that you idiot! It was unprofessional! It was unprofessional and downright embarrassing. This has to stop! Why are you even doing this?"
Sherlock waved his hand, "Oh what's a little bit of fun."
"Fun? This isn't fun! I am being tortured constantly by you and this stupid red pants obsession."
Sherlock seemed to shift then, looking a little angry.
"Then now you know how I feel."
"How you feel? What the sodding hell does THAT mean? I don't do anything nearly as irritating as this!"
"False. You are a consistent source of anger, frustration, and slowly building up to rage."
"What? No, I'm not!"
"You are interfering with my work, my daily life, and even my thought process!"
"How am I—"
"Because I can't stop thinking about you in red pants!"
John instantaneously stopped. He stopped moving, breathing, and (for a second, and then went back to whirring like mad) his brain shut off.
"What?"
"The red pants! Ever since your outrageous school mates mentioned them, it's been impossible for me to get it out my head! I have no idea why! I've tried deleting it, I've tried storing it, and I even tried facing the problem head on. Which you foiled because you wouldn't tell me! Whenever my brain is at rest, even for a moment, it goes right back."
"Are you saying…what are you saying?"
"I'm saying that you've caused all of this! If you'd just told me what sort they were I could have envisioned it and gotten it over it, placing it somewhere deep in my mind palace. But no! You had to keep your mouth shut for stupid, idiotic, prideful reasons and have left me with the task of imagining all the different styles and poses—"
"Poses?!"
"—you could be in and it's been destroying my brain since it's been mentioned! So yes, John this is your fault and you deserve whatever torture that has been wrought! If you had just answered me, I could have gotten rid of this! As long as you insist on being a complete moron, this will no doubt continue!"
John clenched his jaw.
"So it's my fault, is it? Not yours?"
"No."
John nodded his head once and walked out of the room. For every second he was gone, Sherlock calculated what he was doing and how long was appropriate to wait until he could assume John wasn't coming back. He stood there, a statue, and listened. John was in his room; that much Sherlock could tell, but with his ear's ringing, Sherlock couldn't hear what was going on.
In reality, it was only a minute, but every tick of the clock felt like it took hours for the next one to arrive. Sherlock used his moment of abrupt privacy to bang on the sides of his head. This wouldn't stop the ringing in his ears, which he knew, but he had been very irrational of late.
He put his head in his hands, trying to gather his thoughts, when he heard John coming back into the room. When he looked up, he was fairly certain he needed to call an ambulance. However, he wasn't sure what to call them and say.
Either I've gone into cardiac arrest or my flatmate has sustained a head injury.
Because John was standing there, in the sitting room of 221B, in red pants.
In the red pants.
Sherlock's mind set off like a spark. They were red Y-fronts, with white trim. The pants were old, going by their wear and tear. The red was faded from washing and there was a small hole near the waistband. This had probably been caused by a female, as the hole was a product of nails ripping at them. Sherlock's stomach rolled with an unfamiliar feeling, though it was one he'd been experiencing whenever thoughts of the red pants had come up in his head. How many women, he'd wondered, had seen the glimpse of the red pants on their dates and known exactly what it meant?
Too many.
His eyes lingered for long enough that John cleared his throat, but he wasn't deterred. He stepped a little closer and kept his eyes trained on the pants.
Until he noticed that, beneath the fabric, the outline of John's cock was getting a bit more prominent.
Sherlock was moving before he could stop himself. He stood in front of John and (without asking), placed his hands on the sides of John's hips. His eyes had been trained down for long enough, as he'd remember the view for years, so he looked up.
"Thank you," he whispered and risked a chaste kiss. It was too quick for John to respond.
And then he was gone.
OOOOO
"I do apologise for giving you all this…trouble."
John and Sherlock sat at Angelo's, with Sherlock looking out the window, much as they had that first night. They had been sitting in silence, which was fine. He wasn't sure what to say anyways. He had never been trained in the "what to do when you become aroused by your male flatmate staring obsessively at your crotch" and he definitely didn't know how that had come about in the first place. They hadn't seen each other for the rest of the night and had somehow managed to keep that up for most of the day. Then Sherlock had burst into his room, claiming they both had somewhere to be. John, having been told to dress a little nicer than usual, was unceremoniously dragged out the door. Sherlock told him nothing, as usual, so John simply sat there and ate. But Sherlock was apologising and that couldn't be good.
"Trouble?" John prompted, trying to pretend he was completely clueless.
"Don't," Sherlock said, "you know precisely what I mean."
John swallowed and sat back, staring Sherlock down, "Why are you sorry?"
Sherlock bit his lower lip and then turned his body to face John.
"You were aroused."
John didn't bat an eye this time, "Yes."
"By me."
"Yes."
Sherlock took a deep breath.
"I am assuming this is…rather traumatic for a man who has been screaming the 'I'm not gay' mantra."
John shrugged. He'd had plenty of time to think this over in the silence of the night.
"Less than I thought it would, though I don't think it's me being gay," he said, blushing as he took a bite of his pasta.
"Oh?"
John waited to finish his bite before continuing, "No, I think it might just…be…you."
His face went even redder at Sherlock's returning gaze, heavy with something John knew to be the beginning signs of lust.
"But it is me."
"Yes."
"You've never indicated any interest before, but you seem astonishingly sure of yourself at present."
"I'm a grown man. I can handle it. I suppose I've always known I wasn't completely straight, and now I really don't care," John shrugged again, "I guess once the gay goggles got put on, I decided I didn't want to put them back in the denial box."
Sherlock looked at him a moment before they both started laughing.
"That was terrible," Sherlock giggled.
"It really was."
"But you are aroused by me."
John's face fell, not expecting a return to Sherlock's bluntness. He cleared his throat.
"Yes. I am."
A few minutes passed. Then, out of nowhere, Sherlock was sliding over to John's adjacent side of the booth. He didn't do anything out of the ordinary at first, just moved. But that did not last long.
"John," he started, which made John turn his head. Sherlock leaned in, whispering in John's ear (the one that was facing the street and decidedly not the restaurant) and letting his cheek barely touch John's.
"Are you aroused by me now?"
His voice had dropped far too many decibels and brand new form of contact was sending all of the blood from his body straight to his cock. As if that wasn't enough, Sherlock's tongue was suddenly lightly trailing over his ear, and John had to stifle a moan.
"Oh God, yes."
Sherlock pulled away from him and John saw the now unguarded lust in his eyes. For the first time, he found himself envisioning extraordinary explicit thoughts about his flatmate.
And it was fine. It was all fine.
A disconnected memory brought a smile to his face and Sherlock made a deep, low, moan.
"Shall I take you home?"
"Yes, please."
Sherlock grinned and then turned his head, "Angelo, check please!"
John could have said he was entirely content at that moment, and that he would have been happy with just that, but it wasn't until Sherlock got the bill from a (very smiley) Angelo that John knew that this was going to get even better.
Sherlock leaned over to get the bill, and his shirt rode up and came untucked, and for just a short second, John saw a splash of color peeking out from the top of Sherlock's trousers.
Sherlock looked back to a wicked grin from John, "What?"
"Well, Sherlock, to use an old phrase," John giggled, "I see London, I see France…"
Sherlock's eyes went wide. He rushed forward and then his lips were on John's and they became a fury of wandering hands and desperate kisses. Finally, they broke it off and Sherlock's finger was in John's face.
"If you finish that god-awful phrase and ruin my tactical move of seduction, they will never find the body."
John chuckled, and made to bite Sherlock's finger, but it was withdrawn. Sherlock's tongue did a quick swipe of his mouth.
"If you bite me, I'm going to bite you back."
John made a strangled sound. His movements hidden under the table, he let his hand trail to the front of Sherlock's trousers, reaching under the waistband and hooking his finger around them. He pulled the trousers away from Sherlock's stomach and saw the red himself.
"Sherlock, those are my pants."
Sherlock grinned, "And?"
"Well, I'm going to have to make you remove them," John smiled.
Sherlock laughed and kissed him, "Yes please."