trōp/ noun 1. a figurative or metaphorical use of a word or expression. "he used the two-Americas trope to explain how a nation free and democratic at home could act wantonly abroad" verb 1. create a trope.

"Is it even possible to hold your breath without knowing it?"

"What?" John is in the kitchen, making tea.

Sherlock is sitting at the desk with his laptop. "Do you sniff my hair?"

John comes out to the living room and looks at him. "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock tilts his head at the laptop screen. "It's called fanfiction. We seem to have quite a following. And I think it's all your fault."

"What?"

Sherlock sighs. "That's three 'what's. If I google 'multiple whats', I'll probably find a few stories about your limited vocabulary, too."

John crosses to the desk. "No, it's not possible to hold your breath without knowing it. Why?" He puts one hand on Sherlock's shoulder and leans in to read the text-filled screen, following Sherlock's pointing finger. "He released a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding," John reads aloud. "And the 'he' in this would be...?"

Sherlock grins. "You."

John snorts. "Well, I can promise you that I would know if I were holding my breath. What else?" He leans in again. A few lines later, he straightens and makes a face. "That's not even anatomically accurate, or physically possible."

Sherlock looks back at him and smirks. "Speak for yourself, John. I'm quite flexible, and you are shorter. It could be done, with a little planning."

John blushes to the roots of his hair. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. Now, if I could just wash the image from my brain..." He huffs and heads back to the kitchen where the kettle has come to the boil.

"Where do you suppose they're getting this material?" Sherlock pushes back his chair and strolls out to the kitchen.

John's face is still a bit pink, but he's keeping his back to his flatmate. "Disturbingly vivid imaginations?"

"That's certainly a factor, but where are they getting the basic ideas?" He crosses his arms and leans his hip against the counter about a foot away from where John is studiously avoiding his gaze.

John huffs. "I suppose you're going to tell me."

"Your blog, John. You are inspiring a generation of women, and a few men, to imagine us like that." Sherlock gets his eureka expression. "And that's where the couple thing comes from, too. I had never thought of it, but then I never realized how popular your blog was until recently."

"My blog is about cases we've solved, not..." He trails off, finding no words adequate to the subject under discussion. He waves his hand between them. "...that."

Sherlock chuckles. "John, if I didn't know you, and all I had to go by were the glowing things you say on your blog, I might think you were in love with me, too." He chuckles, not noticing John's color is rising.

John hands Sherlock a cup of tea and walks around him with his own, out to the living room. He sits down in his chair and sips silently.

Sherlock brings his tea out and sits down in his own chair. He studies John. For a moment. "Do I 'study' you for 'moments'?"

"What?" John says, then rolls his eyes. "Yes, I know. Four 'what's. Sorry, but you keep asking such ridiculous questions, I don't know how else to ask for clarification."

"Do I study you? That seems to be quite a frequent description. And we're said to lock gazes quite a bit."

John shrugs. "Well, that much is true. You do have an unsettlingly intense way of focusing on things. And me."

Sherlock frowns, and then smiles almost immediately. He taps the space between his eyes. "That's another one. I apparently get this horizontal crease between my aquamarine eyes when I'm frowning." He puts air quotes around 'aquamarine' and looks at John.

John lifts an eyebrow. "How much of this fanfic stuff did you read?"

"Did that qualify as 'studying'? Just now? I was looking at you." He actually does have a crease between his eyes.

"Sherlock, you're obsessing over a handful of stories written by people who've probably seen you in the news. Be flattered and let it go."

Sherlock lifts a brow this time. "Are you flattered that they think you're in love with me? Or that we shag every time we're alone?"

"They're not getting that from my blog, and I can't be held accountable for the imaginations of creative writers." He frankly studies Sherlock. For a moment. "Did we just switch sides in this discussion?"

Sherlock huffs. "You were offended, and now you're amused."

"Were you trying to offend me?"

"No, I was trying to make you see that your blog is the reason you keep having to defend your gender preference."

John puts down his tea. "Is that what you think I'm doing?"

Sherlock snorts. "How else can one interpret 'I am not gay!'?"

Silence.

Sherlock frowns, automatically touching the space between his eyebrows. Finding the crease makes his expression go determinedly neutral. "If you're not saying that you're not gay because you're not gay, then..." He shakes his head.

John smiles. "You're tripping over your lithe, sensuous tongue."

The crease is back. "That wasn't in anything I read." His expression takes on a touch of alarm. "I hope that was a quote."

John picks up his tea, avoiding Sherlock's eyes. He turns to the fireplace where flames crackle around a birch log. "You assume I couldn't come up with that on my own."

Sherlock's mouth drops open, and he closes it with an snap. "No... I..." The crease is definitely back. "You..."

John sighs. "I have heard of the genre before, Sherlock. Fanfiction about us isn't new to me." He's still looking at the fire. "I...I've even written some of it."

Sherlock is on his feet before he consciously thinks to move. "You have not!" He doesn't know what horrifies him more, the idea that John would write fanfiction, or that he would write the things Sherlock has read.

John is still facing the fire, but now his shoulders are shaking. Sherlock is speechless, for a moment. "John? Are you-"

John turns to look at him, and Sherlock quickly switches gears, "-giggling?"

John puts down his cup wiping tears from his eyes. His is not just giggling. He's laughing out loud.

Sherlock sits down.

John takes a deep breath and manages to get himself under control. "You should see your face," he points and starts giggling again.

Sherlock's expression hardens. "I'm happy to be so entertaining."

John sobers a bit, then reaches over and slaps Sherlock's knee. "Don't be that way. I'm just laughing with you, not at you. Fanfiction about us came to my attention some time ago. I didn't mention it to you, for obvious reasons. It does get a bit... graphic."

Sherlock crosses his arms. "Why did you read it?"

"I didn't actually 'read' it, but it's hard to resist at least taking a look when you find hundreds of stories online in which you and your flatmate are featured. Fiction, but some of it oddly believable. A lot of it not. Romantic, erotic, humor. Something called 'hurt comfort' that I didn't like the sound of, so I avoided it. How seeing you hurt could be considered a subject for entertainment..."

"You automatically assume I'm the one getting hurt?"

John shifts in his seat. "I did peek at one, and it was you."

Sherlock smiles. "It's fiction, John."

John shakes it off. "The genre has been around for a lot longer than we have. That's why it can sound cliched and trite. There are only so many ways to describe sex between two men, or kissing, or unrequited love. Or 'staring into each other's eyes'. Or 'studying' each other."

Sherlock looks thoughtful. "A word or a scenario becomes a trope after it's used so many times, and it gets reused because it works. It's an innovation the first few times, and a cliche after a while. Inevitably." He studies John openly. "So, you didn't actually write any of the stuff?"

That earned him another snort. "Of course not. When the hell would I have time to write fanfiction? That has to be done by people with WAY too much time on their hands."

Sherlock smirks. "This from the man who spent hours coming up with titles like 'The Speckled Blonde' and 'A Study in Pink'."

"My blog is straight reporting. The headline has to be descriptive enough to get people to read it."

"Headline versus title? A distinction without a difference." Sherlock gets up and heads back to his desk. "I think I will do a search on some of those cliches. Where should we start? 'Throbbing member' or 'sensuous tongue'?"

"Jesus, Sherlock." John gets out of his chair and takes their cups to the kitchen. "You're going to have Mycroft's surveillance team rolling on the floor."

"Or each other." He looks at John and they exchange a smirk.

"Search on the 'member' thing. And make it 'pulsing' instead. Sounds more... comfortable."

Sherlock types.

Somewhere across London, Mycroft Holmes' mobile pings a text message. He picks it up, reads for a moment, and gives an exasperated sigh as he types a response.

Sherlock's phone pings a text message. He glances at it and chuckles.

"Mycroft?" John calls from the kitchen.

Sherlock types on his mobile. "He's even easier than you."

John snorts, but his eyes hold longingly on the dark silken curls across the room that smell of vanilla and musk, and the aquamarine eyes framed by dark lashes fanning his alabaster cheekbones...

"I heard that!"

A/N - Just a bit of fun. No offense to fanfic, obviously, since I live here, too. -GW