Almost six years ago, Mary Morstan stumbled across an ad in the paper for it, and, recently broken up with her boyfriend; voluntarily kicked out of their home; she found charm in the dust and grime. To her, 221aa was wonderful. It took some cleaning up, a little bit of elbow grease and a lot of fresh paint, but Mary managed to get everything just the way she wanted it. Her pale yellow couch sat underneath the window, its matching chair in the corner by the fireplace with an old silver stand that held her books with just enough space for a cup of tea to rest. The kitchen cupboards held her dark purple plates and bowls; her red wine glasses, her white wine glasses, her sterling silver cheese platter and the pastel pink tea cups she had gotten for her birthday several years ago from the ex-boyfriend she was all but fleeing from. The countertop in the kitchen; old linoleum still peeling and cracking in some places was scrubbed within an inch of its life and an oversized wicker basket full of fruit sat on top along with her kettle and a flower pot she had repurposed to hold her silverware. The main bedroom was finally livable as well; plush bed with a white and powder blue duvet, book shelves lined with knick knacks and old textbooks from some of her more interesting classes at Uni, and classic favorites. All the walls, even down to the bathroom, had been stripped of their terrible, mouldy wallpaper and painted a crisp shade of green or grey. In short, it was perfect.
Not long after moving in, and burying herself into the restoration, one of the technicians at the veterinary clinic she worked at was looking for a flat share; not long out of her schooling, and not long out of her parents home, she wanted to be on her own, but not completely on her own. So, Molly Hooper brought her rust coloured, velveteen chair from the seventies, and her long built collection of cat related knick knacks, and deposited them into 221aa.
Just above them, in 221a proper, lived Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. Her tenants being much younger than she, she liked to stay out of their way; bring them biscuits when she made too many (and of course, she always made too many), she dusted a bit when they weren't home (but she was not their housekeeper; not even close), and in return, they shared afternoon tea with her, fixed light bulbs that had blown out in her tall lamps, and invited her to their weekly dinners, even though she never accepted.
Above, Mrs. Hudson, in 221b there was Sherlock Holmes; the first tenant of the building; someone who seemed to be as much a part of Baker Street as the bricks were themselves. His flat was a chaotic mess, much like the man was himself; books crammed into the shelf along the fireplace, and then stacked in the corners when he had run out of room; musical instruments; a small keyboard, and two violins near the cluttered desk underneath the window. There was a skull on the mantle, and a pocket knife pushed through a torn up piece of sheet music. The kitchen was a disaster of more sheet music, and an old, chipped recorder that sat on the dining room table, and never moved. His bedroom stood in contrast; orderly and neat; antique instruments he had collected throughout his life in a glass hutch; a framed picture of a composition done by Mozart hanging on his wall.
Sherlock didn't live alone; he had for most of his adult life, but a brief interlude with a medical facility left his funds lacking, so the blonde neighbor from the basement, whom he had barely spoken three word to in two years, brought her ex-boyfriend up to his flat one day, much to her own inner confliction, and not twelve hours later, John Watson was moving his few things from the small flat he had downsized to, and moving them into the bedroom upstairs; a small bed, a prized collection of jumpers, and an old picture of he and his sister, and a binder of lesson plans.
Above them, in the last flat, lived Greg Lestrade. Greg had lived there almost as long as Sherlock had. He moved in after his wife of three years got stuck on the idea of a trial separation; the trial had been going on for six years, with no resolution; no divorce, no getting back together, just a constant tug and pull of emotions from the woman Greg had always been content on spending the rest of his life with.
Greg's flat was the only other (besides Mrs. Hudson's) with one bedroom; made entirely perfect for the reluctant bachelor. His laundry could often be found on the floor, his dishes dirty in the sink and on the counter top.
Friendship seemed to have no choice but to spring up between the lot of them; Mary and Molly no doubt were friends due to living together, and Mary and John had a history together that they sometimes would have liked to ignore, but it was impossible to forget that they once loved each other, before they fell in love with each other and ruined everything between them. John and Sherlock were friends (John likely was the only actual friend Sherlock had; the rest just seemed to tolerate him) from years of living together, and from something else- something that was having a hard time being placed. Sherlock had always gotten on well with Greg, the two of them having been the only tenants for a period of time, stayed out of each other's way, but were friendly when they couldn't manage to be avoided. Greg got along well with John; having found out that they were working at the same school for ages, and the girls' liked him as well. They were a knitted net; woven together by history, by present, and by future.
Greg was sitting on the yellow chair in Mary's flat. They all met their once a week for dinner cooked by the woman whose cooking talents were wasted spaying and neutering cats and dogs all day. Greg had the remote for the telly in his hand, and finger on his finger planted on the button, searching through the channels, mumbling about how there was nothing good to watch anymore. John was sitting next to him, telling Greg to stop on something or to get ready to be punched in the face. They were both perched on the very end of their respective chairs, elbows on their knees and wrinkles in their foreheads, which could have been from their contention, but was more likely a sign that they were both quickly approaching forty; the wrinkles matched the flecks of gray that had begun to spring up in their otherwise beautiful heads of hair; of course, a little bit of gray distinction could always add to their attraction.
Molly was curled up in her chair, an old, worn out copy of Jane Eyre between the fingers of one hand, while the fingers of her other twirled through a stray piece of hair that had fallen out from her loose, careless bun. She did her best to ignore the over grown children sitting to the side of her; she spent most of her days drowning out mews and whining barks from the patients at the vet clinic, so it wasn't too difficult to ignore John and Greg.
In the kitchen, Molly was stirring a pot of stew she had let simmer all day, and bending down to check the progress of her yeast rolls through the window in the oven. At one point in her life, Mary had fancied that she would become a chef, but the industry was a difficult one, as her father kept reminding her, and so she chose veterinary surgery instead, but Mary never lost her love for cooking, and tried as often as she could to properly feed her friends; if no one else.
Mary came out from the kitchen, wiped her hands on her apron, and looked over to John, "Is Sherlock coming down?" she asked him.
"I don't know. He was in a bit of a mood when I left."
"Isn't he always?" Mary asked back. "Could you go up there and see?"
"Why do I have to go?"
"Because he's your flat mate."
John sighed, "He's your friend; it's your dinner."
"He'd only yell at me. You know how to handle him best; just go. Please."
John sighed again, and got up from the chair, "I thought part of not dating you meant I didn't have to do everything you asked of me."
"Oh, sweetie," Mary playfully pinched John's chin between her fingers, "You're always going to do everything I ask of you." She said with a laugh, and then let him go.
John went up the small staircase between the bottom flat and the landing and then the longer one that led up to his own. He pushed the door open, and found Sherlock, much the same way he had left him; slumped in his chair; arms hanging limp over the sides, long legs outstretched so that his toes touched the small feet of John's chair, and surrounded by a cloud of smoke from the cigarette hanging from between his lips. His eyes were closed, and there was the soft buzz of clarinets and what John thought might be a French horn, and the tickling of a piano playing over the set of speakers hooked up in the living room.
"Sherlock-" John ventured, cautiously, in case he had fallen asleep.
"John." Came Sherlock's low rumble of a response.
"Mary wanted to know if you were coming down for dinner."
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, and brought the fingers of hi left hand up to take the cigarette out of his mouth and push down into the nearly full ashtray at the bottom of his chair.
"How many of those have you smoked in the last hour?" John asked, picking up the ashtray, and walking into the kitchen to dump it into the bin.
"Not nearly enough." His calm demeanor flickered away in an instant as he sat up and dug his fingers into the sides of his curly mess of hair, and tugged. "I'm stuck John! Everything I've been writing turns out sounding exactly like this!" he moved his hands wildly from his hair to motion to the sound coming out from the speakers.
"Is this you?" John asked. He had no choice but to listen to Sherlock's incessant practicing, and he had been to a show once, but John would never be able to pick out a piece of music Sherlock had written against others.
It was beautiful; slow and deliberate; it made your eyes want to close and succumb to a sweet memory of a dream, but there was an undertone, just haunting enough that would only keep you on the precipice of sleep without ever giving it to you.
"Yes. Two years ago. I shouldn't have told Mycroft I was ready to write another show; I'm obviously not."
"Maybe you just need a break. Go get dressed, and come have dinner."
Sherlock looked off at John for a few moments, like he was studying him, tough for what, John didn't know. Then, Sherlock's look of tension slithered away from his face, and his general mask of cool, complacency and general irritation with the world around him returned. He ran off to the back of the flat, presumably into his bedroom, and John waited in their living room for him to return.
It was only seven minutes before Sherlock came back, black trousers, dark green button down, and black socks, but no shoes. His hair was bit more managed, though still tousled at the sides. John sucked in an annoyed breath at how effortless it was for Sherlock to look so magnificent, all the time. Even when John had first walked in, and Sherlock was just sitting there in an inside out gray shirt, and blue pyjamas, he had managed to look like a regal house cat; lounging about while his owner was away.
They went back downstairs to Mary and Molly's just as Mary was setting out the bowls filled with stew and a basket of rolls.
Everyone ate, and drank; generally too consumed with the food to make any conversation. When they finished, however; surrounded by empty bowls, glasses and bottles, Mary left the table, and scuttled down the hallway toward her bedroom. She returned with a wooden box, and a smile. Everyone else smiled too, except Sherlock, who rolled his eyes.
The game was familiar; played over and over again for years between the five of them. Mary handed the box over to John, who took a sip from his third refreshed glass of wine and dug his hand inside.
"Worst kiss." John said to Mary, setting the paper aside, so the question couldn't be asked again that night.
Mary laughed, "you actually."
"Me? I'm a fantastic kisser."
"Not when you're pissed."
"Oi, that doesn't count!"
"It absolutely does. You were so bad at it that I had to make it a rule you couldn't kiss me after the pub."
John made a face like an upset child, and leaned back in his chair. He pouted out his bottom lip, and quickly bought it back in, "Fine; lets just move on."
He reached into the box, and pulled out another piece of paper to unfold, and giggled a little before asking Sherlock his question. "Best orgasm."
"Best orgasm?" Sherlock repeated "Is this really the kind of people we are? Our interest in one another comes down to trivial knowledge that borders on gossip? Wouldn't you rather know a favourite childhood memory, a difficult obstacle I overcame, or even my favourite book?"
Everyone was silent for a moment, and looked back and forth between each other, and then at Sherlock.
"No." Mary said, "I definitely want to know about your best orgasm."
"Yea, I kind of do too." Greg added, pressing his elbows onto the table and leaning forward.
Sherlock sighed and shook his head, " you are all so simple minded."
"Yea, we know; terrible people. Now tell us." Greg pushed.
"Fine." Sherlock sighed through his nose, and calmly asked, "What exactly do you want to know?"
"Who it was with, when it happened; why it was so great." Mary said.
"I deleted his name, and it was something like two years ago. The key to a good orgasm, of course, is the build up. He had me on the edge of coming for twenty seven minutes before I finally did."
"Twenty seven bloody minutes?" Greg asked, "How did he do that?"
"He had a lot of control, as did I. Most people orgasm quite quickly because they can't control their breath; they let the serotonin and their hormones invade their synapses, and let the pleasure over take them. But if you let yourself be present rather than drowning in anticipation, you can hold on for quite a while. Unfortunately, we were pressed for time, so the twenty seven minutes was all we managed."
"If you're actively trying not to come, how do you know when it's finally time?" Molly asked, her cheeks turning a little pink in the process.
"One of you says to the other, I'd like to come now" Sherlock answered in his, isn't it obvious voice. "That was me. I was running late for a rehearsal."
"And when it finally happened?"
"Honestly? You want to know about how I had to wash my own come out of my hair in the bathroom basin; how I had to scrub it from my headboard the next morning? Would you like to know that it lasted for well over three minutes, and I temporarily forgot that I have no belief in God, as I kept calling out to him?"
There was a collective silence while everyone stared at Sherlock. John was the first one to break the heavy tension that was suddenly hanging in the air around them. He shifted in his chair, and cleared his throat.
"And no one has done better since?" he asked
"I haven't orgasmed since." Sherlock said, flatly.
"At all?"
"At all."
"How have you gone two years without even touching yourself?" Greg asked.
"As we've established, I have more control over my body than most."
"Yea, but you don't even get yourself off?"
"Unlike the lot of you, I don't feel the need to masturbate every day."
They all collectively protested Sherlock's observation. A grin crossed over his face, and he leaned forward on his chair, fingers underneath his chin.
"John, you did just this morning in the shower; I always know because you're in there ten minutes longer, and there's a heavier scent of soap left over. Mostly, though, you do it once you've gone to bed. You bring your laptop with, and come down to the bathroom after being upstairs for thirty minutes. Mary, you like to do it after you've showered, which is why you save your showers for just before bed; doesn't take you long to climax generally. Greg, you don't have a set schedule for your masturbation; because you live alone, and have no one to worry about finding out. You just have wank whenever you feel, and often on your couch."
"Oi!" John shouted, "I've slept on that couch!"
Sherlock shot John a glare, clearly telling him to shut up, so that he can finish. John narrowed his eyes back at Sherlock, but did as he was silently told anyway.
"And Molly." Sherlock continued, "You take your masturbation quite seriously; etching time out of your day with music, and candles, and toys. Everyone else just wants to get off, but you want an experience. Of course, with your new boyfriend, you haven't much had the need for it."
"New boyfriend?" Greg asked, looking to Molly; his voice hitched a little higher than usual.
"I- Sherlock how did you know I've been seeing someone?" Molly asked, her cheeks and the tips of her ears a bright shade of red.
"There's a new tube of pink lipstick on your side of the bathroom counter, and an empty bag from the lingerie store in the bin. Obvious."
"How do you know the bag isn't Mary's?"
"Mary is still hung up on John. She hasn't dated anyone worth buying new knickers for in three years; not from a lingerie store at least."
"Okay, Sherlock. I think it's time to shut up now." John cut in with a nervous laugh, leaning over and putting his hand on Sherlock's arm.
"Not good?" He asked, his voice genuine in his question.
"Bit not good, yea."
"Oh." He sat back in his chair, and waved his hand dismissively in the air, "I told you that the game was stupid."
There was a few moments of silence; no one really sure what to say to the other. They forgot about the game for the remainder of the evening, and Molly started to clear off the table; brining the dishes into the kitchen.
"So, you're seeing someone then?" Greg asked her, bringing in the empty glasses; everyone's but John's.
"It's still early days, but yes." She answered, her smile as evident in her voice as it is on her face. "His name is Jim. He works at the National Bank."
"Well, good for you Molly. When do we get to meet him?"
"Like I said, early days."
"Afraid to bring him around Sherlock?"
Molly laughed, "He just told you all how I like to get myself off, can you really blame me for not wanting to introduce them to each other?"
"Well, to be fair, he told us how everyone does it. Except for himself; that bastard."
"Because he doesn't; remember?"
"Oh right."
They both laughed, and Molly rested her hand on Greg's shoulder; it was just the lightest of touches, for the briefest of moments before she let go, and opened the dishwasher.
In the living room, Sherlock was lying, just as regally as before, in one of Mary and Molly's chairs; his legs stretched out, his arms falling over the sides.
"I think you should probably get John back upstairs." Mary said to him from the matching chair, motioning to John, falling asleep on the couch, empty wine glass threatening to crash onto the floor.
"I suppose you're right." Sherlock lifted himself from the chair; it's a swift, clean motion, but he sighs as if he was being asked to move the Berlin wall rather his own lithe body.
"Come on John, let's go." Sherlock hoisted John up from the couch, slinging one arm over his shoulder.
John pulled away, "I can walk myself, thank you."
"Fine, you lead the way then." Sherlock followed John out of the girls' flat, and slowly stayed behind him up the stairs to their own, keeping his hands in front of his own body in case John should stumble backward.
"Do you need anything?" Sherlock asked when they've reached their flat.
"A glass of water would be great." John lay down on their couch; just for a moment to rest his eyes, and to keep the room from spinning so damn fast.
It was generally assumed by anyone that knew them, that John was the one always taking care of Sherlock; that he ran his ridiculous errands, made him tea, and remembered to feed him at least one good meal throughout the day. It was accepted that John took care of Sherlock when he was ill, even when Sherlock was insisting that he didn't need to be taken care of, and especially when Sherlock finally did give in to whatever illness was inflicting him. And the assumption was correct, and true to form, John did it all with no complaint, and a smile on his face, because John took care of people, and Sherlock was his best friend.
But there were rare moments, that no one else ever saw, when Sherlock took care of John much the same way he had grown accustom to being taken care of.
Sherlock came back with the water, and a paracetamol. John slid the pill into his mouth, and drank the water. Sherlock started to rummage through some papers on his desk, organizing the work he had done that day.
"Sherlock, what's your favourite book?" John asked from the couch. He was starting to think he wasn't going to make it up to his bed tonight.
Sherlock stopped, a pile of sheet music in his hands, and smiled,
"Il Figlio del Corsaro Rossa"
"And in English?"
"The Son of the Red Corsair."
Pirates. John smiled in his sleepy, alcoholic haze, and laid his head back down on the pillow of the couch. Sherlock, finished with his papers, left to go upstairs into John's room. He opened the wardrobe, and pulled down one of the spare blankets John kept in there. He brought a it back downstairs with him, and covered it over John's already snoring body.