Authors note:
Hello! Thank you for reading my story, any reviews and criticisms would be appreciated. Happy shipping! Also, I don't own any of this etc, etc.
Chapter 1
John trudged up the stairs wearily. Last night had been fun, albeit surprising, but he felt an impending sense of awkwardness descend over him as he entered the flat to face his smirking flat mate.
"Morning John," Sherlock said loftily, trying to pretend that he was interested in the book he was reading.
John began taking off his shoes before greeting him. "You're awake early. Assuming you slept at all."
"I slept fine thank you." Sherlock replied curtly before glancing away at the page he'd been staring at for the last 5 minutes. "You, on the other hand, don't look like you've slept at all."
Sherlock's piercing gaze met John's. "You're not…" he paused, as if searching for a word that escaped him, but the army doctor knew it was all an act - Sherlock didn't forget words. The detective grinned slightly, but from what the shorter man could tell, his flat mate didn't look amused.
"Ah, you're not doing what they would call colloquially the 'walk of shame' are you, John?"
The blonde froze mid-step to the couch. "What?" He asked lamely.
"The walk of shame, John," the consulting detective replied, tossing his forgotten book onto the couch, "It's the act of walking home wearing the same clothes from last night. Usually after a one night stand."
John knew he was screwed. He had been from the minute he'd walked through that door. Sherlock knew.
"Interesting, seeing one of Mycroft's cars drop you off.'' The dark haired man continued, as if he hadn't paused at all, "I wasn't aware you two were friendly."
"Uh…" John replied eloquently, "Um, no, I happened to run into Mycroft last night after speaking to Lestrade at Scotland Yard. He invited us for dinner, but Lestrade had too much paperwork or something to do. Police stuff."
There was silence in the flat and John coughed awkwardly while Sherlock placed his hands together in his usual 'thinking pose'.
The older man began to get irritated. He didn't know why Sherlock was interrogating him about this. He often came home from going out with friends in the morning, usually after too many drinks or having run out of cash for a cab. So why the sudden interest in his whereabouts?
John's blue eyes narrowed, "Sherlock, if you're giving me the Spanish Inquisition just because I had dinner with your 'enemy' I'm going to bed."
At the lack of reply, the army doctor turned towards the staircase in order to escape his mental flatmate and get some sleep.
"You slept with my brother."
When John had slammed his door shut, he turned around and slid down to the floor.
Oh god, oh god, oh god. John repeated the mantra in his head, unable to think about anything else other than the overwhelming sense of embarrassment he felt, knowing that his flatmate knew that he had slept with his older sibling.
John suddenly wished he had thought of the consequences of jumping into bed with Mycroft Holmes last night. But he had been so charming and even… funny at times that John had been disarmed and had neglected to think about anything other than the fact that Mycroft had a lovely home and that he was a really excellent kisser.
John didn't regret sleeping with Mycroft, it had been great and a nice way to relieve tension but he wished he had bloody well thought of what coming home to an all-seeing Sherlock would be like.
Of course Sherlock knew. Sherlock knew everything about everybody he'd ever met, except he didn't realise that Harry was actually John's sister and he also didn't notice that John was so attracted to him it was hard to be in the same room sometimes.
Downstairs, Sherlock was seething. How dare his smarmy, fat older brother get his grubby little paws all over John. It wasn't that he was jealous - he scoffed at the very idea – John could sleep with whoever he wanted. But did it have to be Sherlock's worst enemy? Surely John had better taste than that.
As if on cue, Sherlock's phone rang.
"Hello brother dear, I trust John got home alright?" Mycroft asked smugly.
"Yes, although I'm sure he's busy trying to wash away the scent of your flabby body from him as we speak." Sherlock replied acidly.
"Now, Sherlock, there's no need to be petty." Mycroft chided gently.
"Oh I know Mycroft, but you do it so well."
His reply was a low chuckle "Do try to not be too childish, John is a big boy you know."
The call ended and Sherlock threw his phone across the room in frustration due to Mycroft's barbed double entendre and the entire situation in general.
An hour later John received a phone call from Lestrade while still being holed up in his room. He was basically hiding from the inevitability of having to speak to Sherlock about what had happened between him and Mycroft. Sherlock could be insufferable and make want John want to punch him in the face at the best of times but this would be much, much worse.
"John," Lestrade greeted "Why isn't Sherlock answering his phone?"
John raised an eyebrow in surprise. Sherlock was always with his phone, in case he needed to contact John or Lestrade, or vice versa. "I'm not sure, really. I haven't been home long."
"Oh," Lestrade said knowingly "Good night then?"
A sigh. "Yeah. Well, until I got home."
"Sherlock giving you grief?"
John let out a tired laugh "When isn't he?"
Lestrade 'Mmmed' in reply before saying "Just go check on Sherlock for me, will you? I need you two to come in for a case."
John ended the call after reluctantly agreeing to go see what his flat mate was up to downstairs.
"Sherlock?" John called on the way downstairs, "Are you home? Lestrade wants us at Scotland Yard."
"Finally come out of hiding, have you?" The younger man replied dryly.
John huffed, "I wasn't hiding." Sherlock raised a dark eyebrow.
"Never mind me, what happened to your phone? Lestrade said you weren't answering."
"I had…an unfortunate accident." Sherlock murmured.
"You broke your bloody phone? How? Actually never mind."
John was surprised at the consulting detective's lack of enthusiasm. They hadn't had a new case in a few days and Sherlock was already starting to get edgy but now he seemed to be… the best word to describe it would be 'sulking'.
The blonde titled his head, curious as to what brought on his friend's moodiness. He didn't think sleeping with Mycroft would have caused such a sulk. Then again, this was Sherlock.
"What's got your knickers in a knot?"
Sherlock rose from his position on the couch "My knickers are not in a knot, John. Are you ready to leave? Or would you rather stay home and sleep? I'm sure you were kept up by my dear brother, you must be tired."
The army doctor was starting to reach his usually endless patience when it came to Sherlock and was about to snap when his phone rang.
"John," Mycroft greeted politely, "We need to talk."