Until Proven Otherwise

A/N I have been plugging away at an X-Men First Class fic for the past few weeks, and it's been putting up quite the fight. To give myself a break from the challenges of getting into Erik Lencherr's head, I am writing Sherlock fics. I never claimed to be clever.

Summary: Chapter 1 takes place right after ASiP. This one was inspired by The Big Bang Theory, particularly 3.22, The Staircase Implementation.

Rating: T

Warnings: Mild sexual references. Also, I'm not British. Although I have spent time in Ireland, so I do know some useful things, such as what Tesco is.

Disclaimer: The idea of me conceiving something as brilliant as Sherlock (or TBBT) is laughable.

Feedback and constructive criticism is welcome!

In Which There is a Flatmate Agreement

The day after the fiasco with the murderous cabbie, John Watson was happily becoming acquainted with the sitting room of 221B Baker Street.

The light from the windows hit the armchair just right for reading, the traffic on the street was muted just enough to create comfortable background noise...yes, John decided he could get used to it here. Even if his eccentric flatmate had a penchant for tracking down serial killers.

Speaking of which, Sherlock Holmes had finally emerged from his bedroom and was now standing in front of John's chair. (Yes, it was now John's chair, thanks very much.) He didn't say a word, just stood there giving off the loudest noticemepleasenoticeme vibe possible until John looked up from his paper to see the laminated, spiral-bound booklet the detective was holding in his face.

"What's this?" John asked, reaching out to take it.

"Flatmate agreement," Sherlock responded, wandering over to the sofa and flinging himself upon it in a manner John was already coming to find annoyingly and unnecessarily graceful.

"Flatmate agreement?" John repeated, confused. Mrs. Hudson hadn't mentioned anything of the sort when he'd signed the papers.

"Whenever you've got time," Sherlock said, closing his eyes and steepling his fingers.

John flipped the plain blue cover open and glanced at the first page. "Sherlock..."

The detective cracked open one eye.

"Did you write this?"

"Of course," said Sherlock.

John continued flipping pages. He was well past twenty when he finally asked, "...why?"

"I've found it's best to get it all out in the open at once."

"All of it...but didn't you tell me everything at Bart's the other day? The violin playing and the not talking and..." John looked back down at the book, trying to determine its thickness. "There's more?"

Sherlock did not even bother to open his eyes this time. "Bart's was the first barrier."

John stared at the ceiling. "The first barrier," he repeated, silently begging for patience. "To...what, flatmate-hood?"

"Yes. If you had no objections to those pieces of information, there was a significant chance you would be open to the rest of my...preferences."

"Sherlock," John began slowly, as though speaking to an oblivious six-year old. "In case you don't remember, I shot a man last night. A man who was going to kill you..."

"Oh, he wasn't going to kill me!" Sherlock insisted with a wave of his hand.

"Watch you kill yourself. Whatever. Don't you think we're past the point of a flatmate agreement?"

"Hand it to me when you're done so I can sign it," was all Sherlock said in response. "Oh, and initial the top right corner of every page, please."

For a while, John was quiet. He contemplated the raising rent of decent London flats. He considered the public transportation system, which would get him in and out of the city conveniently enough, if he cared to get up at least an hour earlier than he did now.

He came to the realization that a man who had shot and killed someone for a near-stranger did not have much more he could lose.

Finally, John waved the booklet towards Sherlock and asked, "Is this the... last barrier?"

Sherlock said nothing.

John spent the next fifteen minutes reading, eyes getting wider, each page being turned with a bit more of a snap than the one previous. At last, he found he had to speak up. "Okay, Sherlock, we need to discuss this."

"What's to discuss?" Sherlock asked lazily. "It should all be perfectly plain."

"Yeah, but it's really not much of an agreement if I get no say," argued John. "And besides, this is just mad! Like here: Article Two: Sitting Room, Subsection A: Furniture. Sofa cushions must not receive more than two 'plumps' at a time...how is anyone supposed to remember that? And for god's sake, why?"John could not help but add at the end.

"This is an old sofa. Any more than two and the stuffing becomes far too compacted. The angles become too extreme. I get a neck ache when I think."

John just...let the silence stretch on for a while. "You're not the only one who uses the sofa," he finally managed.

"See Subsection B."

"Right," said John. "Sit up, stop acting like a child. We are discussing this."

Thus, the bargaining began.

Two hours later, they were on Article Nine: Kitchen, which contained such gems as absolutely no bananas are to be present in the flat on Fridays, and nothing in the refrigerator will come into contact with raspberry jam. John had quite a trying time convincing Sherlock to allow raspberry jam as long as it stayed on the fridge door, but the man would not budge on the banana edict. Somewhere in the middle of Article Three, John had started using a pen to "edit" the agreement. Sherlock had let out a rather hilarious squawk of indignation as soon as ink had touched paper, but a look from John sent him into sullen silence. John had just wanted to keep things moving. Honestly, this was ridiculous. The past two hours had been marked with more tense negotiations than John had seen during all his years in the service; The Great Jam Debate had only been the tip of the iceberg.

To be fair, there were several points of the agreement with which John was quite fine. (Windows must not be left open during summer months when flat is vacant. Couldn't argue with that; no one liked flies.) Then there were some items he did not feel immediately concerned him. (Article Five: Bedrooms, Subsection A: Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock's bedroom is not to be entered by flatmate without express permission.) There were others he really did not care to know about. (Article Seven: Proper Treatment of the Skull.)

At last, they got around to a subject which John believed was perfectly normal for flatmates to set ground rules for.

"Article Fifteen," John read, his voice sounding weary. He paused to take a sip of water, and found himself wishing it was whiskey. "Visitors. Subsection A: Female..." John stopped, and instantly regretted putting up such a stink about the jam.

"Sherlock...first of all no one, other than a biology textbook author, describes it as 'coitus'!"

"Well, that's what it is!" Sherlock snapped. His patience was wearing thin by this point, especially if his hair was anything to go by. It looked rather like a six-month vacated squirrel's nest.

"I really don't see how it's any of your business!" John snapped back.

Sherlock huffed out a frustrated breath. "Look, I'm not asking for a play-by-blow account, or whatever you call it. Just give me six hours advanced notice so I can make plans to be elsewhere. Unless I am conducting a related experiment, in which case I will provide you will all necessary materials well in advance..."

"Sherlock!"

Little did either of them know that John's exasperated groan of Sherlock's name would be the first of many over the next several years.