A/N: Hey guys, it's been a while! I haven't posted stuff in what feels like years! But since the Moff has been so good lately, and I just rewatched Sherlock with my dad (hilariousness), here's something I wrote a while ago and never got around to uploading. By the way, the climactic line of Anderson's was unfairly ripped by me from an excellent comic book by Scott McCloud, and I'm not proud of the way I used it ^^ Stay groovy, and don't forget to review!
Warning: Slash, crack!fic, condoms, general nonsense, Mycroft… yeah yeah you get it.
Disclaimer: Moffat and Gatiss own Sherlock, doo da, doo da, Sherlock and John had hot gay sex, la dee doo da day.
Anonymous texts were never good. John knew this. They had led to his kidnapping, many mistaken arrests, and a few strange instances where Sherlock had sent them to Donovan and caused minor (read: major) panic. So this particular text really didn't bode well.
Go outside and get in the car.
"Hey Sherlock," John said, "Is there any particular reason I just got an anonymous text saying 'Go outside and get in the car'? That wasn't you, was it?"
His flatmate hardly looked up from his examination of a used condom.
"No, John, why on earth would it be from me? Besides, my phone is in my jacket, and I haven't asked you to hand it to me in order to text you, so what you ask would be impossible. It's probably Mycroft; you know how he is. He wouldn't hurt you." Yes he would, thought John.
"So what you're saying is…"
"Go get in the car," Sherlock clarified in his dear-god-how-stupid-are-you voice. John sighed and turned to walk down the stairs and out into the street.
"If I get killed, it will be your fault." Damn Holmes brothers and their irrational urges. Why the bloody hell Mycroft had just texted anonymously was beyond him. Pulling the door open and striding into the bright sunlight, John saw a large, extremely conspicuous chartreuse Hummer on the curb.
"What the f-" Before John could finish the word, Anthea, or whoever the hell she was, had slid gracefully out of the huge vehicle's door and opened it for him.
"Get inside," she intoned sweetly, one hand still on her Blackberry. John wondered briefly what she would do to him if he didn't comply (throw the phone at his groin? Send embarrassing pictures of him at the Christmas party to the entirety of London?) and decided to just get in the car. With some difficulty, the short man clambered into the Hummer and waited patiently for not-Anthea to slide in beside him.
"I suppose you know Mr. Holmes wanted you for something," the lush brunette said, two hands now on the phone.
"Yeah," John replied, "Just one question about that really: Why the hell is there a bright green Hummer rather than some sleek black limo picking me up? I would've expected something less attention grabbing form Mycroft."
Anthea rolled her eyes delicately.
"Obviously, John, the car is chartreuse. Anyway, what really matters is that Mr. Holmes wanted me to give you this." She fished a CD in an unmarked gem case out of the seat cushions and handed it to him.
"Before you ask, I don't know why he wanted you to have this. Actually, I think it's for Sherlock, but Mr. Holmes knew that Sherlock wouldn't answer any more anonymous texts, especially if they were from his brother. Before you ask, he texted you anonymously because he doesn't want anyone to know who gave it to you if and when the evidence goes viral. Before you ask, I will not go on a date with you. Get out of the car."
"I wasn't going to ask…"
"Get. Out. Of. The. Car." Slightly alarmed, John hopped down from the gargantuan vehicle and turned to see the car off, but it had somehow vanished. How the hell Mycroft had done that, he'd never know…
Puzzled, he made his way up the seventeen steps to his flat and confronted Sherlock, who was now licking the condom.
"Okay, so apparently- SHERLOCK! THAT IS DISGUSTING! What the bloody hell are you licking the evidence for?"
"Never mind me," Sherlock said slowly, pushing the "evidence" away and making a face as though he didn't like what he had tasted, "What did my darling brother want?"
"No clue," John said, giving up the condom as a lost cause. "He gave me this CD- and by the way, since when does Mycroft drive a bright green Hummer? Isn't it a bit showy for his tastes?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and snorted.
"Obviously, John, it was chartreuse. Keep up." Ignoring John's huff of annoyance, the taller man made a snatch for the CD case, examining it minutely.
"This is a rip of something, perhaps camera footage. You know Mycroft has the entire CCTV system in London wired up to his disposal."
John nodded sorrowfully, thinking about a particularly unfortunate time which had involved Sherlock, some non-consensual actions, and a not-dark-enough alleyway.
"Yes, I'm aware of that, but why would he send you CCTV footage?" His eyes widened. "Oh my god, you don't think he taped the sewer incident- I'm telling you, that was not my doing and it was all Mrs. Hudson's fault the pudding had come to life-"
"No, John, I'd disabled the cameras before that incident, remember? Calm down, and remember- the things I did to that pudding were no one else's concern-"
"Anyway!" John interrupted loudly, drowning out the possibly incriminating statement his friend was about to utter, "All I want to know is what's on this disk. Think it's safe to see?" Sherlock didn't answer, but popped the disk into John's laptop and sat down expectantly, motioning for John to do the same. He gritted his teeth and knelt beside his insane flat-mate, hoping to god there wasn't any recorded evidence of that time last month when-
Suddenly, there was a small burst of static and an alley flickered into view. No one was present in the frame, but a cat ran across briefly. Nothing was happening.
"Interesting," Sherlock muttered.
"What?"
"This alleyway is about a block away from Scotland Yard. I didn't know Mycroft even had a camera here. I think- Oh look, something's happening!"
"Yes, so shut up and let us watch."
Sherlock complied and watched someone walk into shot, nervously checking behind himself. He didn't seem to notice the CCTV, stopping in front of it and standing still. Presently, another man walked up beside him, and they turned to face each other. John tried to stifle a gasp when he saw that it was Greg Lestrade and whatever-the-hell-Anderson's-first-name-was Anderson.
"So, um, I've been meaning to tell you something," Lestrade said, his husky tone of voice sounding choppy and lifeless on the CCTV audio system. The younger man looked hopeful, turning out-of-nowhere puppy dog eyes on his superior.
"I have something to tell you too. You should probably go first."
"No, you go first."
"No, you go first."
"No, you go first."
"No, you go first."
Sherlock closed his eyes in undisguised disgust with the two grown men.
"I don't know why Mycroft sent us this, unless he wanted to bore us out of our skulls –sorry, Yorick," he added to the skull on his mantle. "Anyway, they sound like teenagers in love. It's sickening."
John elbowed him in the ribs.
"Shut up, Sherlock. I'm trying to watch." They turned their attentions back to the screen, where they had missed a minute or so of sappy insistence.
"Fine," Anderson finally said, "I'll go first." Rather than the usual I've-swallowed-something-unpleasant look on his face, there was an unusual expression of anxiety.
"We've been working together a long time," he started, twisting his fingers around, "And I have something I need to say. I don't know how, so I'm just going to come out with it and hope –dream- for the best." He took a deep breath.
"GREGGY, I'M A LESBIAN!"
"WHAT?" shouted John and Sherlock simultaneously (John was about to punch the computer through a window, but another announcement was coming).
"ME TOO!" Lestrade yelled, and before either soon-to-be-scarred flat mate knew what was happening, Lestrade had pinned Anderson to the wall and was snogging the life out of him. Anderson reciprocated with great vigor, tilting his head to get a better angle and grabbing Lestrade's bum. They both began to grind against each other, Lestrade bracing himself against the wall with one hand and dry-humping Anderson.
A few minutes of that passed by (Anderson whimpering the other man's name), when the camera suddenly shut off, leaving both John and Sherlock leaning toward the now-black screen in what could only be described as absolute, total, sexy horror.
"What the fuck," John managed around the lump in his throat. "That was the weirdest, most fucking messed up thing I have seen in my life, and that, Sherlock, includes the time I walked in on you wearing stilettos and eyeliner."
"Holy mother of Christ," Sherlock choked out, "What the hell was that? Oh, and by the way, you knew that outfit was for an experiment, and might I say it worked; you were most certainly turned on."
"I was no- Okay, well, that's not the issue here. The issue is what we're doing with that." John gestured wildly at the blank screen and Sherlock, still unable to tear away his eyes, slowly shook his head.
"I can only think of one remedy for this situation. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" John thought hard and came up with the answer.
"Watch it again?"
"Oh bloody fucking hell, yes."
~end~