"How do you actually know BSL, Sherlock?" John asked one evening, out of the blue. He had been living in Baker Street for three months now, yet Sherlock seemed more complex than ever.
Sherlock looked at John over his steepled fingers. When John, who was watching his laptop, glanced back at Sherlock, Sherlock signed, "I learned for a case."
John raised an eyebrow and continued to type as he asked, "What could you have needed BSL for in a case?"
Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, then jumped up and left the flat, swirling into his coat as he bounded down the stairs.
"Um, what…" was as far as John made it into his response. He had seen Sherlock's erratic responses before, but they still startled him. He sat for a moment, then shrugged. Sherlock would return when he was ready.
A week or so later, Sherlock texted John at work.
Cancel plans for tonight. SH
Also, you need to get a haircut today. SH
After quite a row when he had moved in, John had realised that it was just easier to do what Sherlock told him to do. It generally had a purpose and it certainly made their adventures run more smoothly. As such, John stopped after work for a haircut before making his way back to Baker Street. He had absently wondered if he could afford to make his work hours part time now that they were working together so much, but that thought fell to the wayside when he saw Sherlock standing in their flat. He was dressed as John had never seen him; skin-tight black pants, a shiny, black shirt straining at the buttons and a pair of flamboyantly pointy green shoes.
"Are they crocodile skin?" John asked, peering at the shoes.
Sherlock clicked his fingers impatiently. "My eyes are up here, John," he said, his impish grin widening to a broad smile as John blushed furiously.
Sherlock went on briskly, "I can see you've had your hair cut, good. There's a change of clothes on your bed, you'll want to have a shower first, I suppose."
John was used to doing things without knowing the details of what was happening, but he needed at least an outline. "What's the case?" he asked, toeing off his shoes and hanging up his jacket.
Sherlock summarized, "Boring, only a club owner who suspects his regulars are selling drugs. Not a complex case, but I do need you."
John blinked a moment, then nodded. Enough to be getting on with.
After a shave and a shower, John went up to his bedroom, curious and a little apprehensive about what this wardrobe would look like. Sherlock's clothes were plain in comparison to John's silk shirt (riotous gold, blue and green paisley silk) and tight leather pants (same shade of blue as the shirt). At least his shoes were black, though they appeared to be the same (crocodile skin?) fabric as Sherlock's. Buttoning the last of his buttons, John looked down at himself and shook his head. He heartily hoped that they did not meet anybody they knew this evening, whatever it was they were doing. He would never live this down, for sure. He adjusted the collar as he walked down the stairs, very aware of the shape of these shoes, and his gait was a little uncoordinated as he learned to compensate for it.
"I hope there's dinner somewhere in this plan, Sherlock," he called, coming into the kitchen in search of Sherlock and possibly a cup of tea.
"If we must," Sherlock replied, looking critically at John's wardrobe. He nodded once, then looked at his watch.
"We have time if we leave now," he said, stopping John just as he was about to turn on the kettle. The cuppa would have to wait, he thought ruefully.
"Not Angelo's." John said firmly as they grabbed jackets and made their way out onto the street. Sherlock rolled his eyes and they headed for the new Greek place closer to Regent's Park.
As John at his gyros, Sherlock filled him in on the plan.
"A friend of Lestrade's wants some undercover snooping, off the books." Sherlock said, looking restlessly out of the window as John licked tzatziki off his chin.
"So why all this?" John asked, indicating his shirt, partly visible under his jacket.
"Skin is a club in Soho. We'll fit right in dressed like this." Sherlock smoothed down his shirt as he spoke, ignoring the stares from the women seated opposite. He went on, "I've been there before, I'm not known for socializing, so it would be suspicious if I suddenly started talking to people. I'll take a seat near the bar and you can move around the room seeing if you can score anything from the regulars. Some of them may be dealing, others might be looking to set you up at another club with them as supplier. Be open to that kind of offer, but don't agree to anything tonight." Sherlock leaned in, looking intent.
"I'd normally use a microphone setup, but it will be useless with the music in the club. So you'll talk to the people I indicate, then give me the information. We can't be seen together though, so you won't be able to approach me."
John blinked. "How am I meant to talk to you from the other side of a crowded…" he stopped. "BSL?"
"Precisely." Sherlock nodded.
John swallowed the last of his gyros. "Well, nothing could possibly go wrong with this plan. Lead on, MacDuff."
Nothing made John feel older than walking into a bar and wishing the music wasn't so loud. He could feel the bass vibrating through his bones, and it wasn't the buzz he remembered from his youth. Gritting his teeth, he checked his jacket and followed the sound to the main floor. John looked around, then approached the bar for a beer. Sherlock was seated at a private table past the end of the bar, partially obscured from view. John took his beer and wandered a little, figuring out where he could see Sherlock easily and subtly, without looking right at him. After a few moments, John leaned against a pole, looking at the dance floor and used one hand to sign, "What?", a subtle gesture.
He and Sherlock had agreed to generally use American Single Hand Fingerspelling, as it was far subtler than BSL. John, like all students at his school, had mastered it for the sole purpose of 'chatting' in class time without the teacher realising.
Sherlock had, irritatingly enough, mastered it in the fifteen minute cab ride over to Soho.
He casually looked to his left, Sherlock in his peripheral vision.
"b-l-o-n-d-e-r-e-d-d-r-e-s-s." Sherlock spelled, looking across the bar to a stunning blonde in a tight red dress, and ignoring John.
Without hesitating, John sipped at his drink and walked across the bar to her. They spoke for a few moments, John using all the skills "Three Continents Watson" could muster, before giving her his (fake) number and moving away. He stationed himself against a different pole, and casually signed, "n-o." Another few minutes, and he looked again to Sherlock for another lead.
This time, "w-h-i-t-e-s-u-i-t", a tall, very masculine John Travolta tribute, flamboyant in his white flares and an open-necked shirt.
John shrugged and flirted his way into scoring several ounces of pot and an offer to expand TJ's business into another club as exclusive supplier. The thrill of excitement ran down John's spine as he fist bumped the dealer, then went to the bar for another drink. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, and a fit of mischievous impulse made him tap in Morse Code on the bar, just to see if Sherlock could read it.
"p-o-t-a-n-d-o-f-f-e-r-t-o-s-e-l-l."
He glanced right and saw the elation turn to a scowl as John caught his eye. John raised his glass to Sherlock, then turned his back, feeling a little chuffed that he'd caught out the master tactician himself.
The next two hours passed quickly, and John realised he was enjoying himself. Working with Sherlock was easy, and the buzz of the undercover work and slight edge of danger were something he was coming to enjoy about this new life with Sherlock. By the time Sherlock casually got up to leave, John had drunk several beers, though he'd been drinking lime and sodas in between, and he was a little drunk. He waited ten minutes or so, rebuffing two women who practically threw themselves at him, and made his way out. As soon as he hit the street, he scanned for Sherlock spying his distinctive outline lurking in a doorway down the street.
"You did that on purpose." John alleged in BSL, his hands slurring the words.
"I can hardly see you in the dark, John. Proved my point, though." Sherlock did not deny the charge, and his deep voice actually sounded quite smug.
"Okay, so BSL could be useful for a case." John paused. "Was there even a case?"
Sherlock broke into a huge grin, but didn't look at John.
The shorter man bristled, knowing he'd been had. "And you know Morse Code." John added triumphantly, abandoning the BSL.
"Of course I do." Sherlock snorted as they walked towards the main road, in search of a cab.
"For a case, I assume." John made it sound less impressive than Sherlock probably wanted it to be.
"Nope." Sherlock answered.
John looked at him. "Then what?" He asked, but Sherlock just grinned again and looked at him, raising an eyebrow as if to say, 'you wish.'
John sighed. Another case, another skill discovered, and still less answers than before. He hiccoughed a little. Fun, though.