Greg growled moodily into his pint. "So this divorce has pretty much put me off women entirely," he grumbled.
"It's final, then?" John asked.
"As of three yesterday afternoon. Congratulations to me."
"Cheers, mate." John tipped his glass in a sarcastic salute. "Swearing off sex entirely, then, or just women?"
Greg sputtered, caught in the act of taking another sip. "Been a while for me either way, hasn't it. Not like the wife - ex-wife - was particularly amenable."
John put down his glass and eyed the detective with interest. "You're into blokes too, then?"
A shrug. "Like I said, it's been a while," Greg answered. "But been a few, yeah."
John snorted. "Same here. Not since my time at St. Barts, honestly, and that keeps getting farther and farther back in the past."
Greg frowned. "But I assumed you and Sherlock . . ."
"Yeah, everyone assumes me and Sherlock. Look, have you ever seen Sherlock be sexual? About anything?"
Greg thought a moment. "No, actually. Until you came along, I always assumed - well, I assumed he was asexual. Or just very, very naive."
"Yeah, no. About a month after I moved in we had to have a discussion about which 'personal toys' were, and were not, appropriate to leave lying around the flat." John took another drink. "But I've never seen him express any sexual interest in another human being, male or female, and I never wanted to press. Not worth making things -" - he flailed his wrist, searching futilely for the right gesture - "- awkward."
"Pity. He'd look marvelous starkers."
Now it was John's turn to sputter into his drink.
"Think about it!" Greg insisted. "He's got incredibly long legs, you know, and those fingers . . ." He shivered, then frowned moodily at the beer. "Okay, now I know I'm a bit pissed."
"A bit." John shifted in his chair. "Bloody well thanks for that image, by the way. I thought I was doing rather well putting it out of my mind, after seeing him half-naked at Buckingham Palace -"
"Yeah, heard about that. Does he look as good in half a sheet as it seems like he would?"
"Better," John answered glumly. "Took me weeks for my heart to stop pounding whenever I heard him wander from his shower back to his room - he always does it without a stitch on."
Both men drank in silence for a few minutes.
John broke it first. "You know . . . you should come over on Friday. Pick up some takeaway and we can fool around. Doesn't have to be anything serious, you know, but it's been ages since I've had some good cock in my mouth and I rather fancy I'd like yours." He felt the blush threatening his cheeks and he looked down, letting out a self-conscious laugh. "Or maybe I'm more drunk than I thought. Just an idea."
"That sounds . . ." Greg's voice was a bit strangled. "Yeah. Sounds perfect. Six-thirty?"
Friday morning, John could hardly think about anything else. He was almost out the door before he got a look - a really good look - at the state of the flat, as if he were seeing it through Greg's eyes.
"Sherlock, you need to do something about the kitchen," he called.
"The kitchen's fine," Sherlock called back from somewhere in his room.
"I mean it," John insisted. "I've got a date coming over tonight and I'm going to throw out every single one of your experiments if they're still there when I get back from the surgery."
Sherlock appeared in his bedroom doorway as if by magic, hair rumpled and dressing gown askew. "You've got a date coming here?"
"Yeah, well, about time, isn't it? Clean the kitchen, Sherlock. I know you're not on a case." And John left.
When he finally got a chance to check his phone at lunch, there were no fewer than twenty-seven texts from Sherlock.
9:02 AM: Who is she? SH
9:05 AM: Do I know her? SH
9:06 AM: You never bring women back to the flat, so you must be v. sure of your chances tonight. SH
9:15: John? SH
9:26: A quick shag, then. Not someone from work. SH
9:48: You'd never jeopardize your job at the surgery for a quick shag. She must be pretty. SH
9:49: And a redhead. You have a thing for redheads. SH
10:02: How do you know she wouldn't like my experiments? SH
10:09: Nothing illegal in the kitchen right now anyway. SH
10:22: I expect you'll want me to put away my experiments in the bathroom and living room too? SH
10:25: Not that I'm volunteering. SH
10:58: Can't deduce anything on this little data, John. SH
10:59: But I'm going to try if you don't start answering your phone. SH
11:03: John? SH
11:10: Fine. I'll figure it out, just watch. SH
11:11: Since you won't shag a co-worker and you don't date patients, you must have met her Wed. at the pub when you went for a 'pint' with Lestrade. SH
11:12: Was more than a pint, by the way - you were pretty legless when you got back. SH
11:15: Not going to complain about me deducing you? Fine. SH
11:16: Redhead at the pub, smallish chest, big eyes, touch too much makeup. Your type, in other words. SH
11:17: Took you so long to find the courage to ask her that you ended up blotto before chatting her up. SH
11:18: That's why you didn't just shag there in the bathroom hallway. SH
11:20: Not that you can't get it up when pissed. Just that you usually insist on consent being done sober. SH
11:21: V. smart, although seems to me to defeat the purpose of meeting women at pubs. SH
11:42: Still nothing? John? SH
11:43: You're nearly out of condoms, you know. Just one left in your bedside drawer & one in your wallet. SH
11:44: If you're stopping to pick some up on the way home, bring nicotine patches. I'm running low. SH
11:48: BORED. Answer your texts! SH
John scrolled through them all as he munched on his sandwich, having more than a little fun with this. Sherlock claimed he never guessed when he was "deducing" - now John had proof positive that wasn't true. In writing. He finished his sandwich and sent back a single text:
12:38: You're guessing. Clean the damned kitchen.
It only encouraged Sherlock, of course, prompting a flood of responses:
12:39: Not guessing. Deducing. You haven't told me if I'm right or not. SH
12:40: I did some reading, John. There's a word for this. SH
12:40: Pretty sure I'm being 'sexiled.' SH
12:40: What time do you need me out by? SH
12: 41: Do we need to establish a code? SH
12:41: Plan to hang a sock on the door? SH
John sighed and tossed the remains of his lunch.
12:41: Not sexiled. Not kicking you out. Just having a date over so CLEAN THE DAMNED KITCHEN.
And he turned off his phone for the remainder of the afternoon.
When John got home that evening, he was not entirely surprised to find the mess had barely been touched. There was a grudgingly clear spot on one side of the kitchen table, two of the chairs had been cleared of debris, and nothing was actively rotting as far as John could smell. It was still far from "clean," though, by any stretch of the imagination. John sighed and went to root through the cupboard for the largest garbage bags he could find.
Decluttering took ages, but the promise of having the counters and refrigerator detoxified for the first time John could remember was a powerful motivator. He was undoubtedly upsetting a dozen of Sherlock's "experiments" in the process, but - despite Greg's profession - John felt confident in his assumption that Greg would not find fermented ears to be a valuable part of a seductive atmosphere. He was rather less confident in assuming anything of the sort about Sherlock.
Who was, predictably, sulking in the living room for the majority of the time John was cleaning. A lot of flopping dramatically on the sofa and sighing, but Sherlock had yet to acknowledge John had even gotten home. John finally left the kitchen to go confront him.
"You going to do that all evening, Sherlock?"
The detective rolled his head languidly, eyeing John without moving a muscle from his prone position sprawled over the sofa cushions with one long leg thrown across the back. "Perhaps. Need me to leave yet?"
"I need you to move your microscope and your other equipment. I have no problem throwing out pig intestines and rotting ears and other biological products, but I'm hoping the loss of your microscope might possibly induce you to, you know, help."
"She's your date. You clean."
"It's our flat, Sherlock. And I am cleaning. Fine, I'll throw it all out." John turned his back on his flatmate and started collecting microscope slides.
He was shouldered aside a moment later. Sherlock scooped up the microscope and slides, without making eye contact, and took them to disappear somewhere in his bedroom, returning a moment later with a large enough box to pack the rest of the equipment with minimal care and squirrel it away to safety. John took the rare opportunity to actually wipe down the surfaces in the kitchen. Not much to be done about the rest of the flat, honestly, but at least the room where they planned to eat was no longer potentially toxic.
"I'm not kicking you out, you know," John announced once the kitchen was passable. "All we actually planned is dinner, and you're welcome to stay and socialize."
Sherlock rolled his eyes hard enough for John to hear him even with his back turned. "Since when have I ever been one for socializing?" He stilled suddenly, then whirled and pinned John with an eerily perceptive look. "And since when have you ever encouraged me to meet one of your dates? You're usually complaining about me texting you and inviting you on cases and ruining the evening."
John knew he should come clean about Greg's identity, but he was enjoying seeing Sherlock wrestle with a deduction he couldn't quite figure out. "Maybe it's someone you know," he suggested.
Sherlock looked intrigued. "I don't believe I know any redheads who would voluntarily spend additional time in my company. So something in my deduction is wrong."
"Oh yes. Definitely." John smiled blandly, his best copy of Sherlock's annoyingly polite mask. "Work out which part yet?"
"I . . ." Sherlock started pacing in a tight line from the sofa to the desk, fingers tracing his angular face as he thought. "You do plan to shag tonight, right?"
"That would be my preference, yes. Assuming all goes well."
"Not someone from the surgery."
"No." John fought to hide his amusement. Sherlock noticed, of course, but obviously couldn't decipher the reason . . .
"At least passably pretty, I assume?"
John snorted. "Hardly a subjective data point, don't you think?"
"Redhead?"
"No."
"You did meet her at the pub on Wednesday, though?"
John was saved from answering by the knock on the door. Mrs. Hudson called out a muffled greeting, then there were (clearly male) footsteps on the stairs, and then . . .
"Hullo," called Greg as he appeared in the doorway. "I hope Chinese is okay. Didn't know whether you planned to stick around for the fun tonight, Sherlock, but I brought enough for all three of us anyway."
And John had the pleasure of seeing Sherlock completely speechless for the first time in his life.