A/N

I wrote this in a fit of pique. It's a typical Johnlock Romcom complete with a vamp/villain-in the form of Victor Trevor.In my last story, Victor was the martyr and since I am fond of mixing things up-Victor is the sort of bad guy in the story.Don't feel too bad for the sod, believe me, I have met a few like him in my 17 years of existence; and they are NO fun.

Fluff abounds, so make sure it doesn't turn you into a bunny rabbit by the end of the story. This story wasn't planned-new chapters will appear subject to the reactions it gets.

Oh, and since I associate all stories with a song-well, the song that plays in my head when I read this is Aguilera's Ain't No 'll make a weird kind of sense to listen to it before/during/after your reading of the story.

Enjoy!

John Hamish Watson was bored. Utterly, bone- wrenchingly bored. You couldn't tell it by looking at the man-he wore that irresistible smile of his just so, his brow was furrowed in concentration to what the person in front of him was saying and he laughed at the appropriate moments. He had great practice at keeping his boredom reined in. His date was chuffed to have at last found a guy who actually listened and smiled so beautifully.

John had had his share of bad dates. If there had been a worldwide competition for The-Most-Boring-Dates-Ever –Endured-By-Man, John Watson would win hands down. That was even when you discounted the date in which the person opposite had chosen to tell him in great detail what one saw when one dissected the male genitalia. Of course, the vivid description was a desperate attempt to get John all hot and riled up and panting. But John felt nothing whatsoever in his nether regions and instead mildly felt nauseous. He couldn't look at sausages the same way ever again.

Now we come to the person opposite. John was bisexual, as a result of which he dated both men and women in a futile effort to find someone interesting. Was he asking for much? Pump his blood up, get the adrenaline flowing and keep him from lapsing into meditative comas in the middle of dates and he would give you a big sloppy kiss on the mouth and be yours forever. And one never ever gets what one wants without wishing hard. Yes, wishing till you were purple faced with concentration. Wishing like you were a four year old who was being toilet trained.

One more thing, John Watson is not the wishing type. He is the doing type. And what is it that he will do? He'll go on dates till the end of time. He'll fill himself with bad, occasionally good, food, cheap wine and fake laughter and forced humor all in the name of seeking that endless mystery that love is.

There had been a few odd times when someone had actually fulfilled the Three Commandments to Being a Better Boyfriend/Girlfriend/Significant Other/Whathaveyou to John Watson. They were few and far between, an oddball mix of people comprising of firefighters, detective inspectors and ex-army men like himself. Convincing himself that he had found the One, he would trot along like a giddily happy unicorn till the diabetic sugar castles he spun in his head would unspool and fall down with a tinktink.

Wake up, Johnny boy.

Most such flings involved infidelity. No, the partner in question would not cheat on John. Oh, no. (Who on Earth would cheat on John-Three-Continents-Watson?)They would be cheating with John. The most embarrassing one to date was when John's patient at the clinic he worked in suddenly started crying about how her husband was being unfaithful and all and how life was the saddest thing that happened to humankind. She poured her heart out to him, poor thing. A great many unsavory details were divulged and when the miserable bat asked John why his ears were red, he had to make up some highly implausible excuse about the air conditioning malfunctioning and his body heating up.(Only your ears heating up, John? Really?)

Boy have I had a wild roller coaster ride looking for love. Not even love, just companionship. Non-boring, adrenaline pumping, bone thumping companionship.

I should get myself a fighter jet. Satisfies all criteria.

So, where were we? Yes, John Watson and his lovely date. Frankly his date, Mary, was an absolute pain in the hole. He had picked her up at Tesco's judging her to be good company solely by the sight of her ample bosom.

How wrong I was.

The woman had gone to great lengths to keep her bodacious décolletage shielded from John's prying eyes. When he had seen her enter, he had huffed a sad sigh.

I might as well go home right now.

Mayhap he had been wishing hard enough. Just when he thought he would actually, physically die of boredom, two men waltzed into the room. Two tall, cloaked men who had satisfied grins on their faces. They looked like they just had absolutely thoroughly shagged each other. Or somebody. The taller of the two men had verdigris eyes and alabaster skin that stretched over alien-esque features. He had an air about him; he looked like he was the tempest, swirled around the small café in his humongous coat and that smile of his could kill. Did you hear me? Kill. Strong men like John Watson could resist it but even they bore signs of impact. The other man had a somewhat less angular face and Italian Carrera marble cheekbones. He was somewhat quieter and more, for lack of a better term, effeminate.

John was pleasantly distracted by these two men for a while, gaping open mouthed at them; so much so that he did not notice his date look at him like he was an insect, pack up her belongings and walk out. He was nevertheless rewarded for his perseverant staring by the pretty man's arse brushing his shoulder as the couple passed by to occupy the next table.

I could do with something like that.

He cursed his luck soundly. Everything oh-so perfect on a platter and he couldn't stake a claim on it. Wasn't there a rule somewhere that tall, handsome men with cheekbones-that-can-cut diamonds and deep lush baritones and silky tushes should not date each other? There should be one like that, if there was justice in this universe and hope for men like John.

He sighed miserably. Here he was, thirty eight years old with not a single decent long term relationship to boast about, with a hideous limp, graying hair and a tired smile. He wouldn't have been able to tell you that the leather jacket he wore made him look five years younger and that blue-collared shirt that he wore open at the throat made his eyes jump out. And boy could those eyes do some serious fatal damage if they wanted to.

He rose to leave.

"Excuse me, is this yours?"

That deep lush baritone that John had been talking about? It was here. And it was wrecking havoc.

The prettier man (Gosh, what was it with this guy and words? Prettier man? Really, John?) Looked up at him and held a mobile phone in his hands.

John smiled his most bedazzling beguiling smile that he had perfected in front of the mirror twenty five years ago.

"Must have fallen out of my pocket. Thanks."

The said man smiled. Not the toothpaste model smile he had worn earlier but rather a tug at the edge of his lips that resulted in a lopsided smirk. His eyes crinkled.

Will you please be mine? Yes, you, gorgeous thing.

Right, where was he?

Aah, the mobile phone .The object was duly returned to its owner without any further ado. John was surprised to find himself hoping for their fingers to brush in the exchange. To John's great dismay, they didn't.

He now turned his attention to said gorgeous-thing's partner who was looking at him with an air of aloof interest. H e had been cut mid sentence and was waiting to resume his bitter diatribe about how he could never date the woman he wanted because everyone just assumed he was gay with aforementioned Gorgeous Thing. (Or so John hoped)

He took a moment, regained his soldier's stoic acceptance and equanimity, turned on his heel and walked the hell out of that sodding café.

Had he looked through the window, he would have noticed that one of the two men was looking out the window, watching John as he limped past.

Sherlock Holmes was not a man who fell in love at first sight. He'll tell you that he doesn't even believe in the concept of falling in love at first sight. But buried deep down in his analytical brain that tore the world around him to pieces of data, there was a tiny shred of thought, of sentiment, that hoped for a day to come where he, Sherlock Holmes, would fall in love at first sight. He pushed that annoying tendril of thought to the back of his head but did not delete it entirely. Today, that little tendril rejoiced-it had been proven correct. Sherlock Holmes was officially in love with someone whom he had seen only once in his lifetime.

Although he will vehemently deny it, Sherlock was consciously waiting for this. He had read and heard his fellow humans rapturously exclaim about being in love and frankly he was tired of it. What kind of experiment is one where you can only rely on empirical results unless by some stroke of luck you were allowed to participate too?

As he sat there, one half of his brain actively occupied itself with cataloging his emotions and physiological reactions while the other half kept up with Victor spouting inanities about the crime scene and the markings on the body. Racing pulse, dilating pupils, slick, sweat-coated palms, a general sense of euphoria, scenes flashing through his head.

Blue shirt that was freshly laundered although unironed. Lives alone. Jacket with a slight bulge to the left pocket. House keys. Also indicates that he is left handed. Mud stains on shoe are from some part of Lambeth. Going by the tincture stain on his thumb and a faint smell of carbolic soap, doctor. A doctor in St. Thomas'. Carried a cane but limp is psychosomatic. Held himself like an army man, hair cut the like one so soldier, tanned, wounded in action. Invalided home. Mobile had inscription. Harry Watson. Brother, most likely. Alcoholic brother who this man disapproves of. Most likely walked out on his wife, the brother that is.

He knew everything there was to know about the mystery stranger he had just met. What he did not know was why he was taken with this seemingly ordinary man. Was it the eyes? The smile? The voice?

One can never know all the answers, even when one has the deductive, melon-sized brain of Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock, are you listening?"

"Hmm?"

Someone was touching his wrist and tapping it gently. He looked up to see Victor waiting for him to respond, an expectant look on his face.

"Uh, sorry, I just, umm, need some sleep. Haven't slept in the past week."

"No, but you have to eat first, that's why we came here. I can bet my entire year's pay that you haven't got anything edible back in Baker on, finish your dinner and you can crash after."

"Stop mothering me, Victor.I am no child. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

Victor was taken aback.

"You've never complained before."

He slid his hand to take Sherlock's.

Sherlock instinctively twitched his hand out of reach. Victor could swing anywhere from clingy to obsessive and Sherlock was emotionally incapable of handling him.

Remind me, how did I acquire this parasite of unimaginable proportions?

His conscious was quick in answering him.

He nursed you through your worst times and helped run down Moriarty. He is your self-appointed caretaker and partner and Mycroft strives really hard to keep you two together. He thinks it's good for me.

And since when does Mycroft dictate my romantic choices? , he retorted.

Pretending to answer his phone, Sherlock excused himself and walked out of the café. Standing at the exact place where the stranger had been standing not a moment ago, Sherlock could see the entirety of the London sidewalk stretched out in front of him. Sniffing, he could pick out the faint trace of Dr. Watson's cologne. He allowed himself a small smile; after a meeting of exactly thirty four seconds with a random stranger, he felt like a smitten schoolboy. He glanced in through the window only to find Victor looking at him expectantly, hands clasped on the table. As Victor found Sherlock looking at him, he raised his hand in greeting. The internal dialogue kicked off yet again.

Can this man ever get a life of his own?

Stop being so mean to him.

I am not being mean. He is a bloody pain in the neck and I just can't seem to shake him off. I have tried every trick in the book, you know that.

Yes, you have. With no observable results. Conclusion-STOP TRYING.

And then what? Throw in my lot with that leech? Hell no.

As he strode back in, his conscience threw one last warning his way (Sherlock, behave!). He collected his coat and scarf, threw done three ten pound notes and mumbled some excuse about Molly calling him with an urgent request.

"Well, she didn't call me."

"Victor, she called me. Which means she only wants me to have a look at the cadaver."

"You said urgent request. Dead people don't need emergency autopsies .That sounds like more like a personal issue."

"So?" Sherlock's patience barometer was slowly inching towards apoplexy.

"Molly always talks to me about personal issues because you simply can't be bothered to sit through one of her miserable soliloquies .Therefore, you are lying to me."

"Can't I lie to you?"

"Sherlock! Are you even implying that your answer to that question is an affirmative?"

"That wasn't a question. It was a presumption. And a correct one at that. Yes. I. Am. Lying. To. You."

Victor looked like he had been slapped. Sherlock made use of the momentary disbelief and turned on his heel only to hear Victor say "Well, I am going with you to wherever it is you're going."

Here we go again.

Sherlock grit his teeth. Swearing under his breath, he quickly planned his escape.

"Victor", he murmured, pitching his voice low. Then he started moving towards Victor and made a great show of invading his personal space. He placed his hand on Victor's chest and angled his head towards Victor's ear.

"Just this once. Please" He rumbled in that baritone, a surefire way to get Victor to listen to him.

The Pavlovian response was immediate. It was as if someone had fired a bullet at Victor. His posture sagged in a way that would be unnoticeable to anyone with an untrained eye, his eyes dimmed and a small smile hovered on his lips.

Sherlock found his hand in Victor's. "Just be careful". Itching to shake his hand off, Sherlock smiled his best lopsided smile and took off.

Oh, Sherlock Holmes, you bad, bad man.

As John sat in front of the telly watching Top Gear and nursing a cup of tea, his almost-defunct mobile phone sang.

Who is bothered to call me at this ungodly hour?

"Hello?"

"Hello, Dr. Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes"

"Sherlock who?"

"Holmes. We met today. At the restaurant. I, uh, handed you your phone."

John, I think it's Gorgeous Thing calling, his libido nudged at him.

Shut up. He has a name. It's Sherlock Holmes.

Returning to the phone, "Uh. . Call me John. Sherlock. How can I help you?"

John! What is wrong with you? I mean I know you're out of practice but "How can I help you?"? Are you some suicide hotline guy?

Will you shut your face for a minute? It works usually. Plus, he can always answer that with "Can you please favor me with your company in my bedroom?"

"Could you please favor me with your company?" and Sherlock paused here, leaving John with his wild imaginings as to what would follow.

See?

"Okay. Where exactly?"

"There's this Italian restaurant on Northumberland Street. Can you come in twenty minutes?"

"I'll be there."

He paid extra care to his personal toilette, showered, shaved and splashed on some cologne but wore the same set of clothes as earlier today just so that he wouldn't look too eager. However, all the while, a doubt was nagging him.

Why is Sherlock asking me out when he already is in a relationship?

No clue, love. But, when you get a chance, you just grab the opportunity and hold on tight.

Hmm. Not too bad, eh? He asked, examining himself in the mirror.

I'd love to have a go at this.

John Watson was then rendered speechless by his own libido.

Seriously? You aren't saying that just too make me feel good?

Honey, I exist to make you feel good.

Touché.

Sherlock Holmes was early. Early as a morning bird. Early as a teenager on his first date. He felt like an over eager schoolboy waiting for his violin tutor to arrive and teach him to play Vivaldi. But his brain was busy churning up more and more reasons for John not to arrive.

Reason number 7:- He thought your bum was too huge.

Reason number 45:- He thought your cheekbones were too sharp for his tastes.

Reason number 67:-He just got a call from the A&E he works at requesting him to come urgently.

Reason number 108:-He got carjacked on his way here.

Reason number 123:-His leg hurt too much for him to come.

Reason number 172:-He, like the rest of this world, is operating under the impression that you are in a relationship with Victor. Being who he is, he is desisting from meeting you in an attempt to not sabotage my non-existent relationship.

This went on till his brain started fixating on each customer in the restaurant and picking all their little lies apart. After a few minutes of this exercise, his brain got tired of the endless information on who-was-shagging-who and started obsessing on Victor instead. In an unhealthy, venomous manner that one adopts when fuming.

What if Mycroft informs Victor that I am meeting John here? What if Victor takes it upon himself to chaperone me?

He immediately started scanning the pedestrian traffic for any signs of Victor, so much so that he missed the polite cough from somewhere to his left. John stood there, looking bemused and wearing a general what-am-I-doing-here-oh-who-cares expression that sat so well on his features.

"Is this seat taken?" He asked, nodding to the chair opposite Sherlock's, eyes all crinkly.

Sherlock's face immediately cracked into a huge grin.

"John!Hi."

He stood up awkwardly but didn't know what to do next; shaking hands would be too formal, hugging would be too intimate, kissing was out of the question. He settled for standing there and grinning at John like a total nutter.

Angelo rescued them. "Candle for the table? Here are the menus; anything you want – on the house"

John's eyes widened momentarily as he browsed the menu for favorites.

"On the house? Is he sure?"

"Well, I helped Angelo out with… erm, something, a few years ago."

"Something?" John zeroed in at the word.

"I am a consulting detective John. I successfully proved to the Yarders that Angelo was not responsible for a vicious triple murder in Berkeley Square because he was in a different part of town housebreaking."

"Consulting detective?"

"The only one in the world."

"What exactly it is that you do anyway? Who consults you?"

"The police, when they are out of their depth, clients, when they want me to solve their problems, the Queen, now and then."

John spluttered on his glass of wine.

"Oh, come on, don't look so impressed. You're distinguished soldier yourself"

"How do you know that?" John just looked utterly bamboozled.

"Your posture, hair and the way you hold yourself screams military. You are also a doctor because of the tincture of iodine stain on your thumb and the fact that the mud on your sole is from somewhere near St. Thomas'."

John leaned on his elbows and looked Sherlock square in the eyes.

"You do know that when you do that deduction thing you are just incredibly amazing. Not to mention very irresistibly sexy."

Sherlock flushed to the roots of his hair.

"So, if you do know all that much about me, I am assuming you also know a lot more. Well, our introductions are done for then."

"You don't know anything about me"

"You are Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective who just also happens to be a genius, dapper gentleman and thankfully for me, you don't mind dating poor buggers like me. I have all the necessary data for now I think. Is there anything else I should absolutely know?"

John tilted his head such that the candlelight pooled at his eyes and made his hair glow liquid gold. As the first of many firsts, John had rendered him speechless. That smitten schoolboy feeling was creeping back.

"Umm. No.I, uh, don't think so"

"However I would like to know one thing. How did you get my phone number?"

"My brother Mycroft. Works in the government. We have an old agreement and he owed me a favor.""I saw your name on your ID tag clipped to your belt", he added, by way of explanation.

"Mycroft? The one you were with at the café today?"

This was John's roundabout way of asking who that pretty bloke was. They hadn't talked about Victor at all and Sherlock didn't want to bring it up. But the line of inquiry was so direct; Sherlock decided it was best to nip it in the bud.

"No, that was Victor. Victor is my…." Sherlock paused here not sure what to say.

"Boyfriend?" John supplied.

"If he was why would I be asking you to dinner John?"

"You wouldn't be the first to do that to me, you know"

"Well, in any case, Victor is not my boyfriend. He is an old friend and my current flatmate."

"Does Victor know that he is not your boyfriend?"

Sherlock was flabbergasted at John's ability to read into a relationship without help. He fumbled trying to answer the question till John came to his rescue.

"It's alright, I am prying. I just don't want to get in between you two. Broken enough marriages already"

Sherlock smiled at that. Yet gain. Twice in less than fifteen minutes. This had to be a personal milestone.

"Don't worry about that."

The food arrived and the conversation eased into general small talk. John was an enchanted audience to all of what Sherlock had to say; which was mostly case narratives. John couldn't stop the flow of superlatives from his tongue as he marveled at Sherlock's skill. Sherlock kept going on, showing off for John and generally basking in the glow of John's appreciation and borderline reverence. They talked through two bottles of wine and sat there till the restaurant was empty of all save themselves. Oddly enough, neither man can tell you what they talked about that night. Each of them just wanted to hear the other's voice, look into the other's eyes in the candlelight and marvel at how the universe worked to bring the two of them together.

Finally, it was time to go.

Sherlock was just about to pop the my-flat-or-yours question when Victor arrived at the doorstep.

Shit.

Victor scanned the empty restaurant, the two bottles of wine and then his eyes came to rest on Sherlock.

"Why the hell aren't you picking up your phone?" Victor asked sounding every bit like the nagging housewife he was.

John had a bemused expression on his face and tried to intervene on Sherlock's behalf.

"You must be Victor. Pleased to meet you. I am John Watson."

Victor put on his most obvious of fake smiles and shook hands."Charmed."

"Sherlock and I were just leaving."

Victor sported the world's largest question mark on his face. John felt the need to elaborate and worsen the situation.

"No. I mean, umm, we were just leaving for the flat. You know, our respective flats."

Sherlock winced.

This is rather fun, isn't it?

Victor obviously had had enough. He turned to Sherlock with one eyebrow raised to the heavens."Your phone, Sherlock? Is it dead or in need of medical assistance? "

"I, umm, put it on silent for the duration of the...er...of the..."

Awkward doesn't even come close to describing the situation right now. It was a melee of oneself, one's ex-partner and current flatmate and one's current partner and future flatmate.

"I'm sorry, Victor. It was just that we were introduced by Lestrade and got talking."

Victor gave the Significant Eyebrow Raise.

"I'll be leaving", John said, ever the gentleman, "it was lovely meeting you Sherlock, and you Victor."His voice carried a trace of amusement.

Sherlock wore an expression which roughly translated into Can the ground just split into two and swallow me whole right now? John could barely control his giggles.

John walked out with a nod to Angelo's. Sherlock just stood there shuffling his feet and trying to avoid looking Victor in the eye.

Fuck up of epic proportions. The world can end safely now.

Which was when he saw John's cane resting against the wall.

Thank god for small mercies.

"Sherlock! Where are you going?"

"I, just, erm, need to give this to John", oh no that sounded too familiar "Dr. Watson, I mean."

And with that he was out, leaving a disgruntled and jealous Victor Trevor in the middle of yet another café, vanishing with a swish of his coat.

John hadn't gotten very far before he was accosted by Sherlock. His limp was barely there and not noticeable at all. One look at the detective's face and they both started giggling. They went on and on, clutching at their stomachs and hanging on each other to still the tremors. Each time they tried to stop laughing, one of them would snort and off they would go again.

"Oh, Sherlock. Did you leave him stranded there?" panted John.

"I did, yeah. God he's such a colossal prick."

"I could make that out, yeah."

"John, please, please don't let me go. I just need to get rid of the bastard and then we can be the way we want to be."

John replied to Sherlock's passionate declaration by dragging him down the nearest alley and snogging him senseless. Sherlock's surprise was overcome by his desire and he responded in kind. It was gloriously dirty and so full of want Sherlock could feel it radiating out of their collective entangled self. John made quick work of his shirt collar and started working amorously on his long pale neck.

After some more feverish kissing and groping, they separated. John, ever the cautious one, pointed out that Victor might get suspicious and come around; the last thing they needed was for Victor to catch them necking near a dumpster.

After one chaste kiss on the cheek, John led them out under the streetlight.

"Oh dear. I think I left you a hickey."

"A what?"

"Your neck Sherlock. There is a very telling purple bruise on it."

"Good then. I don't have to do the distasteful job of chucking Victor then; he might just be angered by my infidelity and bugger the hell out of my life."

"Easy there, tiger."

They just stood there, wringing their hands, discomfort oozing through their pores. What do you tell a man you had met just hours before and fallen in love with in the meantime?

Catch you later, perhaps? Snog you later? Goodbye? That was one hell of a first snog? Same time next week?

"I'll see you around then."Sherlock said awkwardly.

"See you around? Is that the line you're going to give me then?" John's expression was carefully controlled but Sherlock, being Sherlock could tell he was hiding his amusement well.

"I don't know what to say! Am I supposed to express regret that I don't get to shag you senseless tonight?"

"Atta boy. That's what I am talking about."

Sherlock looked at John and smirked.

"Well, here's what we'll do then. You have my number, so you call me whenever you can get some time off that pretty boy of yours."

"Pretty boy? Who, Victor?"

John rolled his eyes. The unsaid duh spoke volumes.

"He is an ogre, let me tell you. The clingiest man in all of London and I assure you, the least likely to inspire love in anyone. And speaking of pretty boy, you are no less yourself Dr. Watson." Sherlock added a lascivious wink for enhanced effect.

"Now, you're being mean."Obviously John would feel it more important to defend a stranger's honor as a clingy man than accept a compliment.

"Say that after being held on to like a crab for three years."

"I didn't peg you for the long suffering type. You are more the no-shit Sherlock."

"Well, I made it very clear right in university that there would be nothing whatsoever between us. Fell on deaf ears I suppose. The tosser then worked around the problem by renting the same flat as me."

"Have you never shagged him?'

"Nope."

"Gee. That is commitment flipped on its head for you, Sherlock."He touched Sherlock's cheek, ran a thumb on his jaw line and pecked him on the lips one last time. "I should be going."

Victor was no blind idiot, he'll have you know. So when he sees a certain gorgeous consulting detective re-enter Angelo's with a flush riding high on his cheeks, inhaling air twice a faster, pupils blown wider than a mile, with three buttons of his shirt hanging open and adjusting his scarf around his neck, he smells something fishy. Something fishy that also smells like John Watson's cologne. It wafts up every time Sherlock moves that pretty neck of his.

Victor attains apoplexy in milliseconds. It's quite an admirable feat and a terrible vision to behold. A lesser man would have quavered under his rightfully angry gaze and dropped his pants but Sherlock just casts an eye over him and says, "Tut-tut. Victor, anger does not flatter your complexion. Come along. I bet we'll be in time for Mrs. Hudson's midnight cuppa."

Thanks for reading. I 'd also like to thank the highfunctioningpotterhead here-my first fandom friend and someone who expressed a desire to see more of my stories. This is for you!

And if I am a chemical experiment, your reviews would be my Sherlock.