Disclaimer:

Sherlock and John belong to Hartswood films, BBC Wales, Steven Moffat and Mark Gattis.

Dr Who belongs to BBC, too.

I'm not either of those, I'm just a fangirl. And as such, I don't make any money of this.

Thanks to my lovely beta, Meredydd, also know by other names around the interwebs

English isn't my first language, so any Americanisms, and any other mistakes and typos are all my own. You may point them out to me, but be kind… us writers are fragile things…

This takes place sometime after "The Great Game" in Sherlock-verse and sometime after "Doomsday" in Doctor-Who-verse.

Just so you be prepared: here be

John Watson, Rose Tyler, the Tenth Doctor, the TARDIS and Sherlock Holmes in various combinations and various states of sexual tension. And yes, you read that right.

Part 1 – John

It was one of those days. Only this time, it got worse.

John got out of bed, still half-asleep and convinced that he was late – which he wasn't – and in his haste, stepped on the edge of his slippers. Pain shot through his foot and his knee buckled under him when he tried to gain his balance and, stepping forward to catch himself, his toe collided with the foot of his dresser.

Now wide awake, he limped down to the bathroom to take care of things and to shave and did a double take when he passed the mirror. Which was covered in lipstick hearts.

For a second the world stopped spinning. Did he know? Had Sherlock found out about Johns feelings for him? John's heart clenched with the faintest glimmer of hope. Then he noticed that each heart had been drawn with a different kind of lipstick: colour, shine, moisturiser. An experiment then. John's heart started beating again. He pondered if he should try to wipe the mirror clean to be able to shave properly, but then he decided against it. Getting lipstick off a mirror was not as easy as it looked. Sherlock put it on, Sherlock take it off.

The resulting dance-like sway in front of the mirror while he tried to watch what he shaved resulted in him nicking his neck. Sweet.

John had stopped the bleeding with cold water, yelped when his aftershave burned in the cut and hit his toe – again. He looked one last time at the mirror, grimaced a fake grin at it and turned to face HIM.

HE was draped over the sofa like somebody had poured him there. "Morning, Sherlock", mumbled John, trying not to gape into his flat-mate's open collar as he passed.

He got no answer. Sherlock had his fingers steepled under his chin and was busy staring at the ceiling. Probably trying to relate the lipstick-hearts to what kind of underwear a woman who used said lipstick would wear.

John went on to the kitchen and set up the kettle. The fridge looked startlingly void of body-parts. John sniffed the milk – not off, opened the butter – no fingers inside the box, the tea-can – which held teabags, and nothing else, took a mug that he had cleaned thrice yesterday and which was still sitting exactly as he'd placed it, opened the jam-jar, which gave a pop that indicated that it had not been opened before and opened the bag of toast. The kettle started to whistle and John started to prepare his breakfast. He was just about to bite into his toast when Sherlock spoke up.

"Tea, three sugars and a dash of milk please, and don't eat the toast."

Too late. John had just take then first bite and as soon as his tastebuds detected it, he spit it out in disgust, knocking over his tea and burning his hand on the hot liquid.

"It's an experiment..."

"Eeeeww!" John dropped the rest of the toast, and as it landed jam-side down on the floor he spotted the mould.

"Don't use the milk.." Sherlock said.

John had opened the milk again and was busy drinking right out of the box to get rid of the taste.

"... it will just seal the taste on your tongue in."

"Eeeeeewww!" John rubbed his tongue against his lower teeth to try to get the taste off, then started to shovel sugar into his mouth.

The sweetness made his teeth hurt and after he managed to crunch around on the sugar and swallow it instead of spitting it back out, he exploded.

"Sherlock! We had an agreement! No experiments with the food in the kitchen! All non-edible experiments are to be marked as 'not-food'! Are you trying to kill me here?"

"The toast was marked."

John turned around the bag and spotted a tiny red skull drawn with a felt-tip pen next to the label.

"Tea, now, please?"

John gave a light shudder, then steeled himself and said: "No."

He 'heard' Sherlock open his eyes in the other room.

"W...what?"

There must've been something in John's voice that made him do a double-take like that.

"I... said... no. Get up and get your own tea. I'm your flat-mate, not your house-keeper, your nanny, or your slave. Get used to it. And get rid of the lipstick!"

And with that, John left the flat though the kitchen-door without having to face Sherlock again. He slipped on his shoes, ties still bound from the day before, grabbed his jacket and slammed the door behind him.