"Oh god— Sherlock! I've found another one! Where in the bloody hell do they get these ideas?" John is sitting in his favorite armchair, his laptop settled on the armrests, its vents whirring.
"Another? My, they ARE busy little bees aren't they? Just one glance at each other that lasts longer than a second and BANG! Suddenly we're homosexuals who get off on torturing each other with our inner tragedies, and struggle with resisting each other's appeal. They really like to write you as very lean, from what I've read. I'd tell them that you're tilting a little towards having a small paunch, but that would ruin their inner fantasies."
"Oh shut up, you're one to talk. They paint you as this fleshy Jack Skellington, with large and rather mesmerizing eyes, rather than the gangly, bug-eyed git that you are. Would you like for me to read an excerpt from this one? 'Their fomenting lust was only revealed in their eyes as they looked at each other from across the room, the dark blue of the wiry Army Doctor peering into the depths of the Detective's peppermint azure'. Bloody hell, peppermint azure?"
"But John, my eyes are stunning!" So saying, Sherlock moved quickly to kneel next to John's armchair, widening his eyes to enhance the "effect".
All John could do was laugh at the ridiculousness that was Sherlock, whose face was pulled into the oddest expression John had ever seen. His eyes were wide, his chin pulling downwards, making his face look even longer, all the while giving himself a muscle spasm under his left eye.
"Bugger off! I'll deck you if you don't stop that. Stop it!" John's protests dissolved into laughter as his stomach ached with the strength of his amusement. Sherlock continues to make the face, except the twitch has now turned into some high-intensity eyebrow wave-motions.
He finally stands up, letting out a low laugh at John's tearstained face, red with the effort of focusing on breathing rather than laughter. John finally gasps himself into a semi-stable state.
"The funny thing is that they have no idea how twisted the real story is," he remarks, a smirk on his face. "They don't know the circumstances of the special deal."
Sherlock grinned at John, having flopped himself down onto the couch.
"No one does except you, me, and Mrs. Hudson. That's how it shall stay. No one needs to know that we're paying Mrs. Hudson for our lodgings with sex."