Skeletons in the closet
Title is randomness squared (i.e. unrelated to the story) but it is sort of a pun on the plot. 254-word pre-Sherlock/John (your mileage may vary) oneshot and Lestrade in the background for comic relief (well, isn't that a bizarre purpose for him!). Rated T for themes. Bordering on crackfiction (pointless, ridiculous humour).
They were at a crime scene, as usual. The preliminary examination of the body and its surrounds was over, but John was having trouble extracting some very specific information from Sherlock which he was rather curious about.
He'd been asking clouded questions about it hesitantly. Presently, he tried a different approach, asking directly, "How exactly did you come to know what scuff marks on the knees mean?"
Sherlock narrowed his steely eyes, "Why do you want to know anyway? It's not pertinent to the case. Your narrative won't suffer for want of that detail."
There was a slight pause as John considered this, then he leant in closer and said in Sherlock's ear, his voice low, "I'm sure, Sherlock, that you've deduced that I'm a closeted fanfiction writer."
Sherlock whispered back, "Isn't it the convention to write fanfiction for fictional characters and not your flatmate and yourself?"
John straightened up as Lestrade approached from behind Sherlock. It was at the precise instant as Lestrade came within earshot that Sherlock chose to query, "So when are you coming out of the closet, John?"
He'd said it without tact and without consideration, as usual. John, eyeing Lestrade's queer expression, decided he would play along, and quickly quipped, "After you, Sherlock."
But perhaps Sherlock had already realised that Lestrade was within hearing distance, for he mused, his eyes twinkling, "Why I would want to come out of a closet in which we're both situated, John, is a veritable mystery to me."
He'd outwitted John again, as usual.
Author's Note: I make Sherlock and John act out the strange things in my head. Sorry. And "closet" is an Americanism I'm aware. Ahhh. D: