Author's Note: Just a bit of fun. Not meant to be mean or anything of the sort.
Hope no one is OOC.
Disclaimer: Yeah, don't own and all that jazz.
Some Nights
Night One: Lips
A touch of lipstick, edge of the lip – possibly a mauve variation.
"Just what are you staring at Sherlock?" John demands, his eyes widening out of frustration in being the subject of Sherlock's gaze for about twenty minutes.
"Been out?"
"Yes."
"Seeing what's her name?" he asks, knowing her name but wanting a heated reaction, turning the page on the novel he's been reading.
"It's Sarah and…" The hesitation does not go unnoticed. John is only hanging up his coat, stowing away a bag, but the hesitation is too long for whatever the next answer is to be the truth. "Yes. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to bed."
Bit of lipstick near the corner means nothing. Could be kissing – a peck would do it. Sarah does not wear that shade. Mauve would clash with her hair.
He turns the page.
Could be hastily wiped off reminders of a night out – Tarts and Vicars party, where John is a tart. He would make a good tart with his short answers and pouty mouth.
Three weeks later:
Night Two: Eyes
Bit of mascara on left . Shadow of…eyeliner…right. Too deliberate.
John comes in from the cold, snow mixed in his light hair, like crystals.
Bit of glitter just under eye. Glitter not easily removed.
"Out again I see."
"Yes."
"Sarah?"
"Yes." He bids Sherlock goodnight and disappears into the flat.
Modern days. Men do wear makeup without indicating a love of female impersonation. Could be something as innocent as another party.
Given the way John worries about finances, could be something far more sinister.
He checks their bank account.
No extra, unaccounted for money. But, he would be clever enough to hide it from me.
As soon as John is snoring, Sherlock steals into his flat mate's room to check his pockets. No money there.
No more theories without evidence to support them.
One Week Later:
Night Three: Bag
Bag contains cosmetics, stockings, and a wig. Mycroft has no answers.
"Might I borrow a bit of lotion?" Sherlock asks as John heads for his bedroom.
"Why?"
"Chapped hands." They're not. He wears gloves to minimize Jack Frost's touch. He's hoping that John will reveal something to indicate his late-night rendezvous. Something tellingly feminine.
"Uh yeah, sure. Help yourself." He brings out a bottle, unscented, generic. "Winter does that." Sherlock does not take it.
"Never mind."
"Never mind? Then why?"
"For a case."
"But we don't have any right now."
"Not yet."
"I'm beginning to agree with Sally you know. That you are a freak. And not in a good way."
"Not as freaky as you apparently."
"And just what is that supposed to mean?" John demands, holding his hands out in a distinctive gesture of annoyance.
"Your bag."
"You've been snooping in my things." It's not a question. "Great. Oh, that's wonderful Sherlock."
"Are they your things?"
"I'm holding them for someone."
"Who?"
"Harry."
"Who is a proper girl?"
"But she doesn't look like one, what with her short hair and…" His voice drifts off.
Direct lie. Eyes keep glancing in direction of bag and ceiling. Will not look at me. Features flushed. Breathing changed. Hands twitching. Amusing.
"I don't have to justify my actions to you." John sidesteps the tall detective and reaches for his laptop, the matter dropped for now.
Two Weeks Later:
Night Four: Cheeks
Bit of rouge in unflattering color. John has not been running. Air is cold, but that shade is manufactured. Rose Pink. Too heavy on the brown undertones for his hair color.
"Late night?"
"Yes, very."
"Satisfying?"
"Yes." There's a goofy smile painted on his face.
"With Molly?"
"Yes." John does not notice the change in name for a few minutes. Sherlock waits. "Wait, Molly?"
"Slip of the tongue."
"Your tongue does not slip, it slithers, usually into trouble."
"Wasn't thinking."
"You're always thinking."
"Wasn't concentrating then."
"Okay, yeah, I'll believe that." He pauses. "Not." Then slyly, "Something on your mind Sherlock?"
"No, but I would say something was on yours."
"Nothing more than the usual. Case or whatever we spend our time doing between."
Time to follow subject…no forming theories that might further impede investigation. Have let little indicators slip over past few weeks.
Very Next Night
Night Five: Investigation
"Going out. Keep away from those patches." Sherlock grunts in return, listens to the door slam, waits approximately thirty seconds before changing into disguise, and starts down the stairs.
"Coming and going all hours of the night," Mrs. Hudson scolds him from the doorway.
"On a case."
"Well that's alright then, I suppose. Someone murdered is it?"
"The case of the missing assistant."
"Whose?"
"Mine."
"But I just saw him go out the door only a few minutes ago."
"Exactly."
"Sherlock, dear, he is entitled to his nights off. Goodness knows he-" She remembers to whom she is speaking, "needs them, what with all the cases you two handle."
Not her original statement, I'm sure.
"And his privacy for that matter."
He tips his hat, borrowed for the night to hide his face, to her and runs out the door. John is walking quickly, partly because of his short statue and partly because he seems in an awful hurry to be somewhere important.
Not stopping on corners. No prostitution then.
Not heading for a seedy part of town. No pubs.
No Molly. No kink.
No Mycroft. No blackmail.
Definitely no Sarah. No date.
John heads into a club via side door.
Sherlock heads in through the front, grabs a table, and waits.
The curtains rise and his mouth twists into a smile.
Female impersonator – drag queen. His interest is for fun. File saved to hard drive.
Later
"Still up then are you? Like my mum?" John teases, hanging up his coat and setting his bag down. Sherlock is pretending to read a newspaper.
"No, I would say you fulfill the role of being your mother."
"What do you mean by that?" John chuckles, though his throat twitches with a hasty swallow, his hands stuffed in pockets a little too quickly, eyes a little too bright.
"Profitable night at Madam Ganymede's with the other queens?" Sherlock asks, direct and straight-faced, folding the paper and setting it on the table.
John sputters.
"Might want to rethink those stockings with that dress, makes your calves into hams." He bids John goodnight.
"They do not," John finally manages in an angry whisper to an empty room.
X
Author's End Note: Was it what you were thinking? Not at all? Just something more for fun. Reviews are greatly appreciated!