"Ah yes, here we are. Reservation under Watson. Here's your key."

"Key?' said John. "Don't you mean keys? I reserved two rooms."

The desk clerk frowned down at her computer. "No, it says quite clearly here, one room for one night. Double bed." She looked up and smiled at him, as if that should settle the issue.

John shifted his weight, trying to hide his annoyance and discomfort. He and Sherlock had driven four hours to get to this tiny village on the promise of a very interesting case, in a terrible rainstorm that seemed to have followed them all the way from London. All he wanted now was to check into his room and dry off a bit before they went off in search of further clues, and this complacent woman was not making his life any easier.

"There's been a mistake, then," he said, trying to keep a smile on his face, and sensing that it was probably looking pinched and not all that friendly. "I requested two rooms. We need two rooms."

The woman glanced at Sherlock, who was wandering around the lobby, analyzing God only knew what tiny details, imperceptible to ordinary humans. "Are you sure?" she said. "Because –"

"Yes, I'm sure," said John, a bit louder and more forcefully than he intended. "Why would I not be sure?" He couldn't help glaring at her, as if daring her to make the usual assumption – the assumption that had haunted him ever since he first met Sherlock. The woman raised her eyebrows but did not make the comment.

"I'm very sorry sir," she said instead. "But it's our only room. We're all booked up."

"Fine," said John. "Can you recommend another inn in the area, then?"

She smiled sympathetically. "I'm afraid not, sir. It's not a big village, we're the only inn in town. And there's a theater festival one town over, so we've gotten a lot of their overflow. Most of the rooms in this region have been booked for months. You were lucky to get this one. There is a campground just outside of town, I could – "

John stared at her. "Have you seen this weather?" he said, no longer bothering to disguise his annoyance. "I'm not camping in a bloody flood."

Suddenly Sherlock appeared at his elbow.

"Problem?"

John gritted his teeth and handed the key to Sherlock.

"It's fine," he said. "They've lost our second room, but we'll manage. I suppose I'll just spend the night in the hire car."

John was surprised to see an amused expression on Sherlock's face. "Such a martyr," he commented in his precise tones.

"Well I don't see you offering!"

The desk clerk broke in. "I'm terribly sorry about the mix-up," she said. "Are you sure you wouldn't be able share, just for the night? There is a rather comfortable chair in the room, perhaps one of you -"

"No," said John sharply, and the woman looked taken aback. He softened his tone. "I'm sorry, but no. It's just not – "

"What my friend means," said Sherlock, that same infuriatingly amused expression on his face, "is that he is not gay. Isn't that right, John?" As John felt himself turning pink, Sherlock raised his voice to make sure the handful of people milling about the lobby could all hear him. "We're not a couple, everyone. And this man is most assuredly not a homosexual. Just for the record, there has never been a straighter man than John Hamish Watson." He turned back to John and lowered his voice to its normal volume. "That is what you were trying to say, isn't it?"

The desk clerk hid a giggle behind her hand, and John clenched his fists at his sides, willing himself not to begin this evening by punching his flatmate's lights out.

"We'll take the room," said Sherlock, moving toward the stairs. "Coming?"

"Sherlock, I—"

"Calm yourself, John, and trust me when I say I am not propositioning you. I really don't see what the problem is – you know I barely sleep when I'm on a case. This one has already kept me up for two nights straight, I don't see why this evening should be any different. No need to kip in the car, you can have the whole bed all to yourself. I will be busy. Working."

"The whole night?"

"I expect so, given the way this case is going." He unlocked the door to the room and held it open for John to enter. "As a matter of fact, I don't know how you can sleep, when someone out there is being so delightfully interesting. But since you seem to require such physical release, you may at least reassure yourself that I shall provide no obstacle."

Sherlock sat in the chintzy armchair the desk clerk had mentioned while John went into the bathroom to towel off his wet hair.

"You know," commented Sherlock from the other room, "you don't always have to be quite so testy. I'm going to become offended one day. There are people in the world who wouldn't mind if everyone thought they were sharing a bed with me. Indeed, you may find it strange, but there are people in this world who wouldn't mind sharing a bed with me."

John exited the bathroom and lowered a glare at Sherlock. "It's not that," he said. "Believe me, I am well aware of how many people would line up for this chance."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Really?" he said, his tone more teasing than genuinely surprised. "Who, for example?"

John rolled his eyes. "Well, Molly Hooper, obviously."

"Mmm," said Sherlock, not disagreeing. "Anyone else?"

John considered a bit. "Moriarty's a good bet."

"Oh, definitely. And?"

"Christ, I don't know. Anderson? The rest of his little fan club?"

"Most likely. But I think you're missing a few."

"Is that right?"

"Yes."

John tried to remain annoyed, but he couldn't help a tinge of amusement creeping into his voice. Only Sherlock would be capable of conducting a conversation like this as if he were talking about where the best fish and chips place in town was.

"Who d'you have in mind, then?"

Sherlock leaned forward, his hands on his knees, his keen eyes looking unflinchingly at John. "Everyone," he said. "Everyone but you."

John couldn't maintain his straight face anymore – a giggle bubbled up from deep inside him. "Oh, everyone," he repeated. "Is that all? Sherlock, you arrogant tosser."

"Do you disagree?"

John sat down on the bed, still grinning at the absurdity of the conversation. "No," he said, "I don't suppose I do. So why don't you do them all a favor then, and invite them on minibreak with you?"

Sherlock scowled, having picked up that John was having a go at him. "I told you before, not my area. If the whole world wants to bed me, that's their affair, not mine."

John scrutinized Sherlock closely, wondering if he dared ask about something that had always puzzled him. He wasn't likely to get another such opportunity. "Why do you do it, then?"

"Sorry?"

"I may be straight, but don't think I haven't noticed. The bespoke suits, the hours you spend on those curls every morning. The vast array of expensive grooming products littering every surface of our bathroom. If you're not trying to pull anyone, why do you bother with all that?"

"It's useful," said Sherlock, still a little cross. "For the work. I find that if I can make someone want me, they become much more malleable. Eager to please, more likely to slip up and make errors of judgment."

"And you never have any trouble with that? Making people want you?"

Sherlock made a show of considering this question, though John was fairly sure there was only one possible answer. "Mmm, no," he said at last. "It's a quite trivial problem."

"And I'm the only one in the world immune to your charms, is that it?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that."

"Ah, so you admit there are others like me."

"No, I deny that you are immune. It's only that I haven't put in any effort with you."

John raised his eyebrows, starting to feel a bit uncomfortable again with the turn this conversation was taking. "You think the only reason I'm not attracted to you is you haven't tried to seduce me?"

"Why would I bother? You already do everything I want," he said, flashing a broad, artificial grin.

"That's not true," said John, his temper rising again. He wracked his mind for some examples Sherlock's demands that he had refused, but came up empty. "Oh hell, maybe it is."

"Come," said Sherlock, gazing out the window. "It's finally dark, and the rain has let up a bit. The game is on!"

Sherlock, it turned out, was overly optimistic about the state of the weather. It was still pouring when they went out, and it continued to pour for the next four hours as they tromped around rural pastures and hedgerows in search of the clue that would break open this case. By 10 at night, John had had enough. The cold and wet felt bone deep, they weren't making any progress, and he could tell he was only hindering Sherlock's search.

"Sod this," he said at last over the howling wind. "I'm going back to the room. I'll see you in the morning." Sherlock waved him a dismissal, unconcerned.

Back at the room, John took a long hot bath, put on a dry t-shirt and pyjamas, and fell hard asleep almost as soon as he crawled into bed.