I have no explanation other than a few too many late nights and an excess of cheese eating recently. All thanks to my erstwhile and fabulous beta Lyrium Flower and to TSylvestrisA for her wondrous Yankpicking and helpful suggestions. I'm actually quite partial to US chocolate - no bashing intended on any front. Silliness, pop culture references and Extreme Englishness abound. I suspect some of the more Britty references may be lost on non Brits so apologies for any 'huh?'ing - Google is your friend. Rated T for language, mildly slashy undercurrents. John x Sherlock.

Wire In The Blood

Sherlock tripped up the stairs to 221b with all the mingled agitation and exhilaration that a recently solved case engendered. It had only rated a paltry three on the Interest Scale but since his shirts had been involved it had warranted his personal involvement. The flat was suspiciously quiet and as he entered the living room he ducked more out of habit than anything else, coming to an abrupt halt on seeing the familiar figure of his flatmate standing rather rigidly between their two chairs.

"Sherlock!" Said John brightly. "Solve the mystery of the holey shirts then?" He bounced on his toes as Sherlock unwound his scarf slowly, eyes narrowing so fast he was in danger of detaching his eyelids.

"Of course. Simple really-"

"Good, good. Excellent. Fucking A!" John waggled his fingers distractingly and then shifted from foot to foot, seemingly unaware of the affronted look involving a lot of nostril and comparisons to gimlets currently being directed at him. "Coffee," he muttered half to himself. "I need some fucking coffee." He marched into the kitchen determinedly. Sherlock followed, a small trickle of suspicion easing its way through the agitation and dampening it a little.

He watched John poke the kettle on and drum his fingers on the counter before yanking open the fridge with more force than strictly necessary.

"Goddamit we're out of milk again!" He slammed the door shut again and rested his head and fists against it dramatically.

Sherlock's palm smacked down on the kitchen table so hard the glassware rattled; John jumped and spun around in fright, hands coming up and circling slowly in front of his face.

"Who?"

"Who what?" Replied John, relaxing minutely after a short bout of shadow boxing.

"Who has lent you those abominable works of fiction? You promised not to buy any more, not after last time, and I've password protected that particular channel so you must have obtained them by other means." He scowled ferociously and then his expression cleared. "Lestrade," he snarled. "I'm right, aren't I?"

John folded his arms and lifted his chin in the manner of someone who might shoot a man with a gun turned on its side. "You deductive motherfucker, you," he drawled. "So?"

"Where are they?" Sherlock stalked into the living room and threw himself to his knees, hurling bits of paper every which way. He straightened to glare at John who was standing in the doorway. "You might as well tell me, I'll find them eventually."

"Why the hell should I? You're not the boss of me." He pulled at his collar as the other man shuffled towards him on his knees. "And why is it so fucking hot in here? Have you been messing with the AC again?"

Sherlock leapt to his feet. "This sort of thing is why, John! I do not 'mess' and you know perfectly well we don't have AC – the average temperature in Southern England ranges from brass monkey to tepid with depressingly sodden interludes. We have central heating. And windows," he added crossly before pointing an accusing finger. "Even think the word 'apartment' and I will kill you."

"I-" started John and then stopped, casting a long, slow look around the interior of the living room. "Fuck," he said eventually. "Fuck," he repeated wonderingly, touching his lips as if to make sure the expletive really was coming from between them. "Fuck," he tried a rising inflection and moved towards the bookcase. "Fuck," a depressed exhale at the stains on the coffee table. "Fu-"

"Stop that at once!" Sherlock aimed a kick at a pile of journals. "You get like this every single time and it drives me to utter distraction." He clutched his head suddenly." Oh God, here we go."

"Like what?" said John pugnaciously.

"Like this. All…all American and weirdly macho and you know what that does to me!" There was a dramatic swirl of coat as he paced up and down angrily. "In order to redress the balance I start talking like some uptight Edwardian or that pointy eared fellow you're so bloody fond of. Argh!"

John's brow creased in confusion as Sherlock slapped his own forehead and moaned "fellow" in a desperate sort of a way. "Pointy eared? You mean Legolas?"

"Legolas? What sort of a ridiculous name is that?"

"…says the man called Sherlock…"

"…my parents clearly hated me. The green one from Mars," he added, flapping a hand in John's direction distractedly. "They must have hated Mycroft more." He directed a sly grin at the fire alarm; John followed his gaze suspiciously.

"Oh, Spock you mean," he offered, certain the battery light was blinking at them in lofty disapproval. "He's not from Mars, you douche, he's from-"

"Don't care. Of course that's who I mean, you blithering idiot. Oh God," he clutched at John's shoulders. "Don't you see? This is all highly irregular!" He straightened and scowled. "And I am assuredly not a feminine hygiene product."

John giggled despite the detective's thunderous expression.

"I fail to see the humour in this situation, Doctor." Sherlock raised an eyebrow framing burning black sheathed in moonstone and glared at him, inches from his face.

"Mmmrnglff," stuttered John, blinking furiously as his brain struggled to untangle itself from a cascade of implacable, green skinned teenage fantasies, eventually managing a cough and a manly slap of his flatmate's shoulder. "Sorry Bro, had a CO who used to speak like that. Dodgy orange 'tache and everything." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "In fact he looked a bit like you..."

"You're not taking this seriously," declared Sherlock somewhat histrionically and shook him for emphasis. "I demand that you take this seriously!" He whined at the back of his throat and shook his head to try and clear it. "Make it stop," he whispered.

"Oh, all right," said John grumpily, shrugging himself out of his flatmate's death grip. "I'll go walk it off or something. We need more milkanyway. I'll go to the grocery store - a few blocks in the fresh air should do the trick."

"Shop! It's shop. Dear God, man! And we don't have blocks we have...er..." He floundered. "Corners and things! Gah!" Sherlock wrangled an invisible throat in front of him enthusiastically. "You must go. Now."

"Want anything? I quite fancy a Sni-"

"Don't you dare," hissed Sherlock. "Not within these four walls. They will always always be Marathons."

"I think you'll find they won't," replied John, unperturbed. "They're definitely Snickers now whether you like it or not."

"Bloody Americans," muttered Sherlock. "It's not enough that they ruin their confectionary they have to ruin ours as well. From now on they'll be referred to as The Other Bar, is that clear?"

"Fine, fine, whatever." John started towards the stairs rolling his shoulders, a peculiar swagger to his steps. "Where are my sneakers?" He yelped and cursed colourfully and (to Sherlock's mind) completely incomprehensibly as one hit him on the back of the head at great velocity.

"Blackguard!" Sherlock countered, watching him pull on his scuffed trainers.

"I'm out of here-"

"Stop right there!"

"Or what?" The defiant note was somewhat lost in a rather undignified squeak as Sherlock scuttled towards him and delved a long fingered hand into his jeans pocket, emerging after a brief rummage with a cry of triumph.

"That's my i-pod!"

"I'm confiscating it. For your own good," Sherlock danced out of his reach, holding it above his head determinedly. "In case you get the urge to listen to music that makes you feel in charge. May I refer to last time?"

"Like a boss, Sherlock. Music that makes you feel like a- oh, never mind- give it back! Don't make me open a can of whoop-" John sprang at him like a demented Jack Russell only to be thrust away repeatedly by a ridiculously long arm.

"Last time, John, remember last time. You...indulged even though you said you wouldn't then left the flat listening to inappropriate music. What happened then, hmm?"

"I, erm..." John shoved his hands in his pockets and toed a sulky circle on the floor.

"I can't hear you," said Sherlock in a sing-song voice.

"I kicked down a door and punched someone in the face," muttered John. "But to be fair he had been stealing our newspapers!"

"Utterly beside the point. If you hadn't been watching that rubbish none of this would have happened and I wouldn't have had to call Mycroft to get you out of gaol." He made an obscene gesture at the fire alarm. "Jail! You'd better fix this," he said ominously. "Or I'll do that thing you hate with the custard creams." He eyed him for a second and then lunged forward again, throwing both arms around John's waist to another answering squeak. "I knew it!" He pulled the hidden gun out of the back of his waistband and threw it across the room where it hit his violin case with a loud clatter. John had the decency to look a little shamefaced.

"Medical men are trained in logic. You are being completely ridiculous."

"Dude, that's cold."

"Be off with you!" Sherlock pointed theatrically at the stairs. "-or we duel at dawn." There was a gleam of manic delight in his eyes that made John hasten towards the door. "I'll have a Twix," he called out as an afterthought.

After the front door had banged shut he circled the room, fingers steepled under his chin, before casting a sidelong glance at the understairs cupboard and hurtling towards the door. Batting aside the falling husk of Hoover he'd gutted a few months back he crowed in triumph at the small pile of boxes shoved behind it.

"Eureka!" Picking up two with all of the distaste he usually reserved for Anderson's forensic reports he deposited them on the kitchen table before opening them and methodically rubbing the undersides of each of the discs within with concentrated sulphuric acid.

"The Wire seasons three and four?" He muttered. "How many of the bloody things are there?" He watched the plastic sizzle with great satisfaction before replacing the discs in their boxes and stowing them back behind the cannibalised Hoover picking up the remaining DVD curiously.

Maurice, he read slowly. A searing tale of a repressed young man coming to terms with his sexuality in Edwardian England.

"Boring! Done a million times before." He announced to the room at large. "Unspoken love disguised as repression is bloody transparent to anyone with eyes in their heads and a shred of sense." He narrowed his eyes at the pictures on the box. Odd. That looks a little bit like-

He slipped it in his coat pocket for further investigation, maybe he and John would watch it together later if there was nothing else on. Completely appropriate viewing for two single male flatmates, he decided. It used to be a book and it was English, much more relevant than that American drugs police rubbish – his friend was far less likely to go all peculiar after seeing a good old-fashioned Merchant Ivory film.

He settled himself in his chair with an air of great satisfaction at a job well done, picked up a nearby journal and waited for John to return home. He'd notice eventually and then there was the thrill of discovery and the subsequent verbal sparring, followed by forbearance, long-suffering looks and tea if he was lucky.

"The game is afoot," he muttered, grinning in anticipation.

END