Sherlock licked his finger. Then, he placed it gently on the corner of the fragile page, turning it swiftly. His eyes poured over the pages. This information was important for the case he was working on, and he wanted to make sure it all fit well enough in his mind palace. Though it was written with crude vocabulary and slang, Sherlock was amazed by how interesting and helpful the text was. Licking his finger again, the next page turned.
John entered the flat, already removing his coat to reveal yet another knit sweater.
Without looking up, Sherlock sighed, "Did Mary knit you another sweater? You would think you would just move on by now."
John's eyes widened, and his index finger rose to point at Sherlock accusingly. "Move on? Sherlock, she completely lied to me. And if knitting me sweaters makes her feel better about us, then let my bloody wife knit be sweaters."
"Well," Sherlock said raising his gaze for a second, "at least get better colors for the next one. Green does not work on you, John."
"And how would you know what colors look good on me, Sherlock? I would think fashion would be filtered out of your mind palace," John asked, collapsing into his armchair.
Without saying a word, Sherlock held up the cover of what he was reading.
John let out a laugh before growing serious. "Sherlock, where did you get that?"
"Molly."
"Remember the wedding?" Molly asked. Sherlock looked up from his microscope. His eyebrows furrowed, and he struggled to remain polite with Molly. She had helped him so much, being nice to her was the least he could do. But sometimes she was so ignorant it was hard for him to bear.
"Of course I remember," he said, looking back at his slide.
"Some things you said… I thought very hard about them," she said again. Her hand waved uselessly in the air, as if trying to pass off her interest as nothing. Sherlock wondered why she was still talking.
"Well, I thought very hard about my words too," Sherlock mumbled. His long fingers adjusted the magnifications on the microscope.
"That's what I was saying!" Molly shouted, before lowering her voice. "You thought hard about what you said about John."
Sherlock finally let his eyes reach Molly's. They were very cautious and confused. "And what about it? Isn't that the point of the best man's speech? To think about the groom?"
"Well, I've brought something for you," she stammered out awkwardly, trying to avoid Sherlock's cold-eyed gaze.
"A magazine… for teenage girls?" John sputtered out. Sherlock held the paper up in front of his face, trying to avoid John's amazed face.
"It is quite helpful," Sherlock mumbled. His eyebrows rose as he turned another page, peeking over the top to peer at John quickly.
"A girl magazine? Helpful? For Sherlock Holmes?" John ran a hand over his face, "I cannot believe this."
"You could benefit from this too, Dr. Watson," Sherlock uttered.
"You keep quiet now, you," John warned.
"Is she for you? An article you should try out for Mary," Sherlock stated, turning yet another glossy page.
John stood still, slightly hunched over towards Sherlock, obviously considering if he should take the quiz or not. Finally, he walked over and crouched on the floor next to Sherlock.
Sherlock looked over at him. John glanced back.
"Yeah, first question?" John asked. Sherlock held the magazine up with authority. Then he cleared his throat. John rolled his eyes, "Get on with it!"
"Patience, John. First question. How often does she smile? A, not often. B, only around me. And there is a winking face after answer B," Sherlock added, glancing at John.
"Alright, and answer C?" John asked, impatience taking him over.
"Answer C, all the time," Sherlock grimaced. "I would not trust a person who smiled all the time."
"Those are the worst answers. Mary doesn't smile all the time, but she doesn't just smile around me. I go with D, none of the above," John answered. Sherlock closed the magazine and placed it in his lap. He stretched out his legs in front of him, leaning his back against his chair as John was doing.
"You have to choose an answer, or else the test will not work!" Sherlock complained.
"Fine!" John shouted. "Go with B!"
"No, definitely A."
"Sherlock," John's breathing hardened, "I think I know my own wife better than you. The answer is B. Circle it." Sherlock pouted as he circled B.
"Question two. What was the last thing…"
"Yoo-hoo?" Mrs. Hudson called from the door. When she entered and saw John and Sherlock sitting shoulder to shoulder on the floor, she stopped and smiled. "Oh, am I interrupting something intimate?"
"Mrs. Hudson!" John cried.
"Yes, actually," Sherlock answered at the same time. John shot Sherlock a look of shock.
"No, Mrs. Hudson. We are not intimate. I am married. You were at my wedding!" John said.
"You know, I always had someone on the side as well," she smiled, walking into the kitchen. "Oh yes," she giggled and shot John a look, "Bernadette." Sherlock cracked a small smile and held up the magazine, ready to read again.
"Mrs. Hudson, what are you doing up here?" John interrupted, closing his eyes to try and keep the horrendous image of Mrs. Hudson and… Bernadette out of his head. He placed his hand on the magazine to stop Sherlock from reading. Their landlady looked up from the kettle.
"I'm making tea," she said, as if it were obvious.
"Ah, thank you, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called.
"Mrs. Hudson, we don't need tea," John said, shaking his hand. Mrs. Hudson looked up, extremely hurt.
"I always make the tea," she whimpered. John looked sideways at Sherlock and then at the magazine. Sherlock gave a knowing glance.
"Maybe wait another hour, Mrs. Hudson."
She gave a sad frown, "Alright then, Sherlock." John waited until she had shuffled down the stairs to raise his hand from the magazine.
"Next question," he said.
"What was the last thing she bought you?" Sherlock asked.
"She bought me a…"
"No, there are options, John. These magazine quizzes have a structure. A, food. B, clothes. C, a… oh my, " Sherlock's eyes widened. He cleared his throat and stared off the magazine at nothing, muttering his next words quickly. "A sex toy."
"You're thick! That's not an option. You just want to know if… nevermind. Just let me see." John forced the magazine out of Sherlock's hands. When he saw that it was actually an option, he began to blush.
"John. What is your answer?"
"Well… uh… it would have to be…"
"John, it is B again. Look at your sweater," Sherlock stated. John looked down at his sweater, sighing in relief that Mary had decided to make him a sweater the past weekend.
"B it is," he sighed out.
"Next question then," Sherlock started.
"How many are there?"
"Only five, John. Why, do you have somewhere to be?" Sherlock asked. John shifted uncomfortably on the floor.
"I only stopped here to say hey. I'm meeting Mary," he answered. Sherlock nodded, cleared his throat again, and continued reading.
"Question three. How well do you know her? A, like the back of your hand. B, like a best friend. C, not as well as I should." Sherlock tried to keep a placid expression, but he found it hard, considering he already knew which one John should choose.
After angrily clearing his throat, John said, "C."
Sherlock circled it and moved right along, "Fourth! Do you have any…"
Knock.
The door creaked open, and the first image Sherlock could see was an umbrella. Throwing the magazine in John's lap, he began to pick at his nails. Mycroft stood in the doorway.
"Baby Brother of mine," he said in greeting.
"Big Brother of mine," Sherlock mocked. Mycroft clucked his tongue in scolding.
"Mockery is not flattering, Sherlock. I came to see how your case was going," the older Holmes said, swinging his umbrella haphazardly.
"Case? Sherlock, you never told me about any case?" John asked, sitting up straighter. Sherlock frowned.
"Yes, yes. It is going fine, Mycroft." He grabbed his violin and nervously plucked at the strings. "All good. Perfect at that. Good-bye!"
"Sherlock, you are embarrassing yourself again," Mycroft said, setting his umbrella across his shoulders. His dead eyes focused on John, "And in front of your guest too."
"Oh, don't mind me. By all means, continue being an annoying and controlling older brother," John muttered, rolling up the magazine in his hands. It caught Mycroft's eyes.
"What is that?" he asked. "In your hand."
John pursed his lips, rolling up the magazine more. "None of your business."
"Please, show me," Mycroft hissed.
"Oh, Mycroft. A lot of stuff is your business, but this," Sherlock pointed his violin at his brother, "this is not." The two brothers glared at each other without blinking. John tried to stay completely still, almost as if they were wild animals, and if he moved they would pounce. Finally, Mycroft sneered.
"Good luck with you case, Sherlock," he spat, hitting John's chair twice with his umbrella before exiting the flat. John let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding in. Sherlock's eyes had gone glassy.
"So," John said loudly, "what was that all about?"
Sherlock's eyes came back into focus. "My brother was merely paying me an unexpected visit." His eyes shot to John. He set his violin down and fell to the ground next to John, crossing his legs like a child. "What question were we on?"
"Uh, four. I think," John stuttered, handing Sherlock the magazine. Sherlock unrolled it quickly, smoothed it out, and read the next question.
"Do you have any nicknames? A, no, they are unnecessary. B, yes, cute inside jokes. C, only in bed."
"Molly gave you this magazine?" John asked. Sherlock nodded, eyes still wide from reading the last option.
"I am going to have to unsubscribe for her," Sherlock muttered, making a mental note to never speak of this magazine again with anyone.
"A. Nicknames are unnecessary between us," John stated confidently. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "What?" John asked.
"You don't remember?"
"Remember what?" John asked.
"The name," Sherlock whispered. John's jaw jutted out in anger; his head began to shake in disbelief.
"Don't you dare," he said.
"Snuggly Muffin Sugar Baby," Sherlock said, putting punch into each word so they rang out in John's ear. He filled with terror.
"I said it as a joke, Sherlock," John murmured. He glared at Sherlock from under his eyebrows.
"Oh, it was not. Admit it, John. The answer is C," Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"I can't believe I told you that." John put his hand on his forehead.
"You were drunk. I could have gotten any information out of you at that moment," Sherlock stated, looking back at the magazine.
"Fine. Circle C then," John exclaimed.
"So, this is the final question. How much do you love her?" Sherlock asked. "A, more than anyone in the world. B, quite a lot. C, more than I should."
The struggle was evident on Watson's face. He got a couple glimpses of Sherlock from the corner of his eye. Sherlock was watching him, waiting. Finally, John answered. "C."
Sherlock had to suck in a large breath before circling the letter. He was expecting the letter A. This meant John loved someone else more. "You answered mostly C's," Sherlock told John.
"What does that mean?" John asked, glancing over Sherlock's shoulder to peer at the magazine's glossy page.
"It shows that you have a loyalty to her…" Sherlock trailed off.
"Is that it?" John asked, knowing that there was most certainly more.
"Yes," Sherlock said with finality. He closed the magazine. John stared at Sherlock for a couple more moments before getting up off the floor.
"I'm supposed to meet Mary in a couple minutes. I'd better get going," he muttered, heading for the door. Sherlock stood up as well.
"Yes, of course!" he shouted too loudly. John stood looking at Sherlock, and Sherlock at him, for a moment more before John slapped his pockets and actually went to the door. He put on his jacket. Then, he opened the door and stood in the doorframe.
John glanced at Sherlock one more time. "I'll see you, Sherlock. Take care of Mrs. Hudson. And scold Molly for that dreadful bit of paper," he laughed, pointing at the magazine still clutched in Sherlock's long, slender fingers. Sherlock raised his other hand and gave a farewell wave as John shut the door behind him.
He immediately opened the magazine again. Then he picked up his skull and recited what the magazine had said about John. "You have a loyalty to her that will easily fade with time. She is a mystery woman, a fling. Someone else has stolen or will steal your heart; you just cannot admit it to yourself yet." His head glanced up at the skull on his fireplace. "Let's see my answers, shall we. Just for the fun of it."
He squatted to the floor. Then he marked in his answers: B, A, A, A, A.
"Mostly A's," he looked at the skull again. "You're clearly in l… love…" Sherlock did a double take on the page.
Love. The word was one he was completely unfamiliar with. Loving was not an advantage; it only made one weak. His hands ruffled through his hair quickly. Nervously. Then, he looked up at the skull.
"Oh, you want to hear the rest of my result?" Sherlock asked. He pretended like the inanimate object had responded. "Well, I do not. So feel free to read it yourself." He held the article in front of the fireplace so his skull could read it, before realizing the skull couldn't read. He threw the magazine on the floor angrily and kicked his chair.
Why had he let Molly give him this? He didn't want to know. He would've be happy not knowing that he was in love. He didn't even know what it meant to love. If he loved one, could he love more? Did he love Mycroft? Gary or Gerard or Georg Lestrade? Mrs. Hudson? Even Molly?
Maybe he just loved this one the same as all the others. The quiz was faulty. He wasn't in love. He just… cared for.
When he met Molly the next day, he shoved the magazine into her hands. She gave him a small smile, full of hope.
"So?" she prodded.
"The magazine in faulty. The quizzes are all wrong. The questions barely match their answers. Complete sham." Sherlock popped his collar up and stood up as straight as possible. "I should sue."
Molly shuffled from foot to foot, not knowing where to look. "Actually, the magazine doesn't lie, Sherlock," she said, giving a laugh. Sherlock peered at her from narrow eyes. Was she messing with him?
"It does indeed. It told me something that was wrong," Sherlock sighed. "Something I know can only be wrong."
Molly smiled, "Denial." Sherlock gave her a dark look, the look that could only be described as death, and Molly quickly left the room. Sherlock popped his shirt collar, before realizing something.
The silly girl left the magazine.
Upon taking a closer look, Sherlock saw with a start that it was a second magazine. There was a sticky note on a page. Curious, he opened to the sticky note. Then he let out a huffy sigh and stuck the magazine in his large pocket.
When he got back to 221 B, he read the marked page.
Five Signs You're in Love.
1) You want to be near them all the time.
At this point, Sherlock put the magazine down and refused to read more. His brother had been correct; he should not have gotten involved. His hands wove themselves into his long curly hair anxiously. Then, he checked the clock on the wall. He was supposed to be here.
"Waiting for John, dear brother?" Mycroft called from the doorway. Sherlock looked up instantly but did not see his brother.
"No, Mycroft. I am not," Sherlock replied. Suddenly, Mycroft was behind him.
"Yes, you are," he sneered. His head cocked to the side, "How is the case?"
Sherlock clenched his jaw. "Solved."
"Oh, is it now?" Mycroft asked, obviously amused. "Tell me the results. He perched in the chair. Sherlock waved his hand, and his brother disappeared. He wasn't really there, and Sherlock knew that. But his brother was always persistent, so the next thing Sherlock knew, the image of his brother was walking from the kitchen and back into the living room. "That wasn't very nice of you, Sherlock. What would John think?"
"Nothing!" Sherlock spat. "He would think nothing of it! Because it doesn't matter! He doesn't matter! Solved!"
"You've come to a conclusion then?" Mycroft asked. The corners of his mouth turned into a frown.
"Weren't you listening? John doesn't matter to me. Solved," Sherlock ended in a whisper. Mycroft smiled evilly before disappearing.
"Excellent," his voice whispered in Sherlock's ear.
Sherlock's eyes opened to find that he was sprawled on the floor with John hovering over him. John smiled, "Good. Right. Thought you were hurt."
Sherlock sat up, "What happened? Where's Mycroft?"
John's eyebrows rose. "Was he here?" John looked to the door. "Did he leave?" As if suddenly remembering something, Sherlock's head rolled to the side with a heavy sigh.
"Forget I said anything," Sherlock murmured, pushing his hands onto his head.
"Is something the matter, Sherlock?" John said, crouching next to Sherlock still. Sherlock's hand set itself on John's shoulder and pushed him away slightly.
"I don't believe so," Sherlock said, his eyes catching John's. His stomach clenched. "Or I might be ill."
John let out a laugh. "Well, you fainted. And you're paler than I've ever seen you." John's hand went to Sherlock's wrist. "Your heartbeat is a tad irregular. And you're also a bit warm. Are you sure you're alright?"
Sherlock blinked twice before standing abruptly. "Quite. Yes, quite, John. John. My friend, John Watson. Yes, quite fine."
John rose to stand next to Sherlock. They both just nodded slightly and looked around the room awkwardly.
Sherlock said, "Well then, I guess we should…"
"We were going to…" John said at the same time.
Sherlock chuckled, "Erm, you first then."
"Well, we had plans. Weren't we going to help out Lestrade…?" John asked. His eyes suddenly glinted in the sun going down. Sherlock sniffed and nodded.
"Exactly what I was going to say, John." He stiffly patted John on the shoulder. "Let's be off."
Sherlock pulled on his coat and then turned to see John holding the scarf out for him to take. Sherlock paused, staring at John's hands. Then, up at John.
John's eyebrows furrowed, "You sure you're fine?" He moved the scarf closer. "Do you want it?"
Sherlock snapped out of it. "Oh, yes. What am I without my image?" He breathed heavily as he died his scarf around his neck.
The two walked out of the flat. Sherlock closed the door, and they walked towards where Lestrade told them to meet. It was chilly, and Sherlock held his coat closer. He kept glancing sideways at John.
He's growing out his hair. It's nice. He looks younger. Nothing like when he had his mustache. Oh, that was a dreadful choice, wasn't it? Oh, my John.
"Sherlock, Mycroft mentioned that case…"
"Solved," Sherlock said, smiling.
"Well, what was it?" John asked, smiling back.
"Nothing of consequence," Sherlock smirked, looking forward. He could see John still looking at him from the corner of his eye. John gave a small smile and put his hands in his pockets, taking twice the amount of steps as Sherlock to keep up.
Sherlock smiled to himself, glancing at the sidewalk to hide his happiness. He thought, Yes, John Watson. Solved. So this is love. The weakness. Sherlock smirked. Weakness? What a funny notion.
He glanced at John again. John looked at Sherlock and did a double take. "Did I miss a spot?" he asked, rubbing his chin, looking for stray hairs.
"No, I think you look fine," Sherlock stammered out. He cleared his throat and tried to walk smoother to hide his stammering.
"And now the great Sherlock Holmes is stammering." John grabbed Sherlock's arm and didn't let go. "Are you quite sure you're completely fine? You're not immortal or… or invincible, Sherlock. You could be hurt. Do you feel lightheaded or weak?"
"No, John. Actually, right now," Sherlock took a deep breath, "I've never felt stronger."