Disclaimer: I obviously don't own a single thing. A.N. This story is set in Alternate s3 timeline where Mary never existed. For H. I. A. T. U. S.' prompt of this month, "bedsharing'. I promise there'll be more of that in the next chapters, and more pleasant. Hope you enjoy!
It's never twins
"I need you to be my husband for a bit," Sherlock announces when John gets back from work one evening.
It shows how used to insanity the doctor is that he doesn't worry that the sleuth might have finally deduced his feelings and is mocking them. Truly, he doesn't bat an eye, beyond asking, "Do we actually need to get married or can we just pretend to?"
"We can pretend, nobody's going to check too closely. You see, there's a couples therapist in Bristol who's having a rather embarrassing problem…the clients he's had the most success with are disappearing just before they would be free to get home. Not good advertising, as you'd imagine," the sleuth explains casually.
"No, I would assume not," John agrees, chuckling. "So we're to pose as clients? Sure."
"I was actually hoping we could bait the killer, in case it should be less than obvious," the detective points out, looking back to whatever he's cutting (his flatmate bets it's not for dinner).
His blogger actually chokes a little at that. "Not that I have anything against the plan on principle, but… successful therapy? Us? Even as a pretence, do you think we can pull it off?" he queries, shifting the weight of his body between legs.
"Not us. Steven and Jack Wells-Hemlock. I promise that after I'll be done with you, not even your mum will recognise you," Sherlock assures (him), looking up.
"So… do I get to have dinner or do we need to leave immediately?" John queries, resigned to his fate.
"How about we take care of dyeing our hair first and then you can have your dinner while the colour sets in? We're booked for a session tomorrow morning, so we need to go tonight," the sleuth proposes, setting down his knife.
"Dyeing? Can't we just…you know…maybe a wig?" the doctor proposes, shrugging.
The consulting detective's sniff makes very clear how outrageous he finds that idea. "A wig? These things are dastardly uncomfortable, John! Besides, if we need to run after someone, we can't lose time for you to put it on properly…imagine if it slipped. Instead, people change their hairstyles daily. I promise it won't be anything too outrageous. You won't be forced to dye it back to go back to the clinic after the case without fearing people would laugh at you," he declares, ushering him with a gentle hand towards the bathroom.
John doesn't resist at all, knowing better than to try to hinder his friend during a case. He just hopes that Sherlock is right about not giving him some outlandish colour. Then again, the man's style – in public – is even more sophisticated than his. He doubts that the posh boy would advocate green hair for him.
In the end, John finds himself with an auburn head of hair, which is not so bad. They have a quick dinner as promised. Apparently, Sherlock sneakily ordered at Angelo's before, perhaps wanting to spoil the both of them, and a quick reheating is enough for the meal to be delicious. Then, there's another disguising session before they can leave.
Judiciously applied make up and non prescription glasses are enough to make John look twice into the mirror…but when Sherlock (no, Steven, better get used to the new name) is done, his jaw hits the floor. Who is this platinum straight-haired dude, and what did he do with his flatmate? Heck, even his cheekbones seem diminished…which is a damn shame, if you ask him. The painted-on jeans more than make up for the loss, though.
"Good thing that we're supposed to be married, or you'd have to beat suitors away with a stick. Actually, since we're supposed to be going through a bit of a marital breakdown, you still might," the doctor remarks before he's realised what he's saying.
"We're working on it, remember. And it's supposed to be a successful therapy. Certainly no room for strangers to woo any of us, so don't think you'll be able to pull. The work comes first," the sleuth snaps, with more bite to his words than would be perhaps warranted.
"Don't worry, I'm able to keep it in my pants," John assures, vaguely offended. During a case he, too, is concentrated on keeping the both of them alive despite his friend's recklessness, and the only flirting he's done was at the consulting detective's behest.
A loud snort implies that the detective's trust in him is less than deep, and frankly, he finds that insulting. "If you don't believe I can be convincing, why don't you find someone else to be your partner? I understand not wanting to put, say, Molly in the position of being bait," he huffs, though personally he suspects that the pathologist wouldn't mind if it came with…side perks, "but, say, Donovan is a policewoman. She should be able to hold her own, and the both of you might benefit from some therapy, too."
It's a jibe, but Sherlock's horrified stare means that he didn't see it as a joking proposal. "We're supposed to be able to pretend to like each other…eventually at least," he remarks, "but if you truly don't want to, I can of course find a substitute. Maybe Mycroft will lend me one of his minions."
"Hey, I didn't say I don't want to. But if you think I'm not up to it. I'm not going to ruin your case," John retorts, shrugging.
"Don't be an idiot, John," the sleuth huffs, "I wouldn't have asked you if I thought you'd be a liability. Obviously."
"I'm going to pack, then. I'll be ready in ten," his blogger assures, mollified.
Of course he's true to his word – John is certainly always ready for an adventure, much to Sherlock's satisfaction – and they get in the car the detective has rented. They pass the trip examining and reviewing their supposed background. The former army captain is allowed to keep his own (it certainly will make for interesting conversation) but his friend can't. What with being the only consulting detective in the world. To his utmost disgust, the closest he can come is to claim Anderson's job. Forensics.
Of course, he could pretend to be anything at all…actor, chemist, professor or barista… But the truth is, he wants to take advantage of the occasion to really work on their relationship. God knows he's afraid that someday John will get fed up with him and leave. This way, the doctor can keep most of his complaints, without having to imagine new ones on the spot.
They spend most of the time discussing not their relationship's flaws, but its background. John seems to be the most stubborn about it. "Even if you deleted our marriage anniversary, or something, we need to be able to answer things like 'who wooed whom' or 'where did you have your first date' and a number of other trifles. If this relationship is supposed to be worth working on at least," he declares.
Frankly, Sherlock has no qualms about detailing the way they fell in love. And it's almost scary how small are the adjustments they need to make for a wonderful relationship to be woven in their story. If only this…if only that…If only John wasn't so loudly straight, the detective can't keep but internally sigh. Of course, eyes on the road, he can't read his companion's equal wistfulness ('If only he wasn't asexual. Transport, really?').
They detail everything. The first date at Angelo's (obviously). Christmas traditions: one year at the Holmes' cottage, the following one with Harry, living in the hope they can have a big reunion and she'll not be likely to get black-out and snipe at everyone. New Year ones (at home, on the roof, kissing under the fireworks). That time Sherlock brought him purple hyacinths (because in the language of flowers they mean 'sorry') only to discover John is violently allergic to them – and yep, John really is, just in case the detective should get in his head to experiment with them.
It does feel good to pretend, and neither will admit that they have such an easy time of it because it's happened dozens of times, in their bedrooms, going over the day and imagining how easy it would have been to kiss the other, if only they'd dared…
Finally they get to Bristol, and check into their hotel. A simple place – not splurging on Mycroft's credit card, then, not that John truly minds - family run. There's a cosy feel to it that the doctor likes, and they're accompanied to their room by a very friendly young woman. For some reason, Sherlock's surlily glaring at her.
The room has the same warm feeling than the rest of the place, but a detail jumps to John's attention: the singular queen bed, with its soft-looking plaid quilt. "I thought it'd be twin beds!" he blurts out, turning towards his partner. Method acting is a thing, he went with the dye and everything…but this?
The woman blushes, and mumbles, "I was sure that you'd actually asked for…"
She can never say what, because Sherlock, as the diva he is, steals the scene. While she justifies herself, his lower lips trembles and pouts, then he bites it cruelly, and finally – eyes full of unspent tears, blinking furiously, he wails, "You said you wanted to try!"
"I'm…sorry?" the doctor tries, blushing furiously.
"I know we're having a rough patch now, but we were supposed to work on it! You agreed! You said, we'll make it out of this. And you can't even stand to be in the same bed? Not yet?" the sleuth recriminates, sniffling. "Do you love me at all?"
"Christ, love, I'm sorry! Of course I love you. this is fine, of course it is. It's perfect. I was worrying for you. You know how I snore," John replies, trying his best to remedy to the tragedy he's caused.
"You're cute when you snore," the detective quips, with a tremulous smile.
"Then…if it's okay, I'll leave you to get settled," a deeply uncomfortable reception lady interjects, receiving a quick thanks from the doctor and a regal gesture of dismissal from his partner.
As soon as their witness is gone, every trace of distress is gone from Sherlock. His blogger almost gets mental whiplash – he'll never get used to the man's acting prowess – and sighs deeply. Was this really necessary?
"Seriously, John, I know I didn't warn you about this, but we're supposed to be married. I thought it was obvious. Do you really need to have a heterosexual panic attack when something that might be misconstrued as implying a relationship between us happens?" the sleuth huffed, glaring without too much heat.
"I wasn't having a panic attack!" John retorts, flailing a bit. "Much less a heterosexual one. I just…didn't expect to have to pretend all the time, you know."
"Well, if we eventually manage to lure our murder, he'll be rather surprised by our marriage finally going swimmingly but us still sleeping in separate beds, much less rooms. Seriously, John, I know you have a decent brain, use it every now and then," Sherlock remarks, sounding beyond weary of the whole situation. "Besides, you know me. I don't sleep on a case. You can happily have the bed to yourself and stop fretting."
"I'll fret more if you don't sleep, you know that," the doctor points out quietly, "besides, technically speaking the case starts tomorrow, and you should get all the sleep you can. It's really not good for your brain, no matter what you think."
"Are you sure?" the sleuth inquires, raising an eyebrow.
"Very sure. So…uh…do you want the right or the left side?" John blabbers, nodding towards the bed.
"I'll take the right, if that's fine for you," the detective declares, shrugging.
John nods gratefully – he's closer to the ensuite bathroom, and he knows there's a chance his nightmares will chase him there in the middle of the night, to wash away visions of blood and death. He'll never be entirely sure if this is Sherlock's actual preference or if his friend is quietly being considerate. "You can have first shower," he offers. It's not different than what they do at home, not much – but why does he feel on eggshells long before they'll actually have to share the bed? If this is how it is now, he'll go mad by the end of the case.
Sherlock makes a point to be quick – frankly, he wants to be back in the room with his friend and lifelong (or so it feels) love. Which is why he enters the bedroom in a bathrobe, still barely dry, droplets clinging to his skin.
John's jaw falls, and he's unabashedly staring, mouth dry as the desert. "I thought…you do sleep in pyjamas, don't you?" he half-groans.
The sleuth shrugs. "I do, but the humidity in the bathroom will make my hair unmanageable if I dillydally in there…I didn't think that you would have any problems with me changing here. You are an army doctor. Both qualifications should have inured you to other men dressing and undressing around you," he says airily. It's not that he wants to show his body off – but his companion's look make him flush more than the recent shower's warmth.
"I am used to that," John snaps, "I'm not some sort of blushing maiden!" Not as used to having someone undress whom he'd give anything to be able to push down on this soft bed and ravish, maybe. But he can survive this. He has to, if he wants to not be banished from Baker Street on their return.
The detective only raises an eyebrow at him, wondering why he's even talking then. He keeps rubbing himself dry, slowly, actually grateful when his blogger can't sustain eye contact any longer after a few seconds. For all that he has hopes for this case (unvoiced, of course) he's not sure how he would react if John did jump him now.
Instead, his bloggers scuttles to the bathroom himself, careful to get his pyjamas before closing the flimsy door behind himself. Oh Christ. What is he supposed to do with the man? It's bad enough that they're supposed to sham being in a relationship…and work on it.
He has never been comfortable sharing, thank you very much, so how is he expected to grouse at a client – a stranger – about why they are the most dysfunctional, codependent couple ever to exist?...Or should he just grouse about the sock index? He's never been good at coming up with excuses, so inventing whole new flaws for Sherlock seems like a risky business, besides being rather pointless. It's not like his…friend (he's your friend, John!) lacks reasons for him to complain about.
All his worry hasn't managed to push the ethereal vision awaiting him in the other room…in their bed. He scolds himself (somehow, his mental rant ends up being in Sholto's voice, and that doesn't help): they can share, it's big enough, no worries, and God knows the sleuth needs the sleep, stop being a wuss, Watson. Still, there's no way he can go back there unless he…takes care of – well – a slight (fine, not slight at all) problem that has…arisen.
It's not like it'll be the first time he'll do it in the shower, and at home, the bathroom is adjacent to the detective's room all the same. Whether he realised or not – the blogger dreads that there's simply no hiding from the world's only consulting detective – his friend has never mentioned his activities (thank God), so why would it be different here?
He's been here too long, having his own private mental breakdown, there's a chance that Sherlock will ask if anything's wrong if he hides much longer, despite his well-known love of long baths. Giving in to what seems inevitable, he quickly – and quietly, at least their flat's layout ensured he's trained not to be loud…and especially not to call anyone's name during climax – pulls on his cock, until he can wash away the evidence and, hopefully, the guilt.
John rubs himself dry with energy – anger, truly, – wears his second best pyjamas, with the white and sky-blue strips, allows himself a steeling deep breath and goes back to the bedroom. His flatmate is already snuggled under the covers, thank God, turned away from him and typing something on his phone.
The blogger doesn't wait for permission, just slips in his half of the bed, getting to sleep in a log position (on his side, legs straight and arms along his side) to minimise the area he occupies and, hence, the chance of contact. It's not how he's used to sleep, but he surely can tolerate it for a few nights, can't he?
Almost to his surprise – he mildly expected Sherlock to go on with whatever he's busy with, possibly for half the night – the detective immediately shuts down his mobile phone, putting it on his bedside table, and murmurs a soft, "Goodnight, John," turning to him before turning off the light.
In the dark, there's a bit of shuffling, before – from what he can understand – the sleuth finds a comfortable position (on his stomach). John carefully breathes in and out, listening to the just as soft breaths of his companion. Hopefully that'll eventually relax him enough to be able to fall asleep.
P.S. Bloopers from this chapter's first draft. I was channeling Sherlock's point of view too hard and accidentally wrote, "Sherlock makes a point to be quick – frankly, he wants to be back in his friend and lifelong (or so it feels) love." XD