Hands wrapped around warm tea, Sherlock tilted his head to the right five degrees. The living room walls really had the most awful paper on them if you stared long enough. Legs tucked beneath him on the sofa Sherlock's gaze flicked over the fireplace. Whose idea had it been to use not one, but two truly terrible patterns in one comfy sitting room?

Sitting in the armchair, sipping his own tea, John watched Sherlock watch the walls.

The consulting detective tilted his head the other direction. The wall looked fuzzy. Could that be a hallucination? No, he knew it wasn't. Flocked. That's what they called wall paper like this. Yes, flocked. As in totally flocked up. Sherlock giggled, then sobered. He really, really wanted to touch the wall.

"Drink your tea."

The voice was far away and fuzzy, but Sherlock did as he was told. Five minutes later he was drinking a second cup. By the time he'd nearly finished his third a half hour later, he was no longer nauseous. Dizzy. Horny. Euphoric. Or—

"Hi," said the man who now wasn't.

John smiled wide. "Welcome back."

Silence returned, lingered, stayed. Apparently Sherlock was content to dole out his words in small portions. Finally John surrendered. "Okay. I give. Tell me please, what were you doing locked in the loo with one hundred open bottles of Sassy Girl nail polish?"

Sherlock steepled his fingers, tapped his chin with them, briefly wondered how hard it was to paper over velvet wall paper. Then at last he spoke. "It's for a five year old cold case Lestrade sent over. It's completely foolish really, but apparently the owner of a nail salon claims she was high from nail polish fumes when she stabbed and killed her husband with a titanium cuticle pusher."

John actually started to laugh before catching himself. With only the barest strangle on his word he said, "Really?"

"Without a real case to work on it's at least mildly diverting. And obviously it's not as absurd as it sounds, as you saw."

"Yes, I did indeed. Saw you completely pissed on nail polish fumes."

"I wouldn't put it exactly that way. I did go a over-board—"

"You think?"

Sherlock ignored the interruption, "—in that what I should really have done is my nails."

John accidentally sloshed tea onto his lap. "'scuse?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I need to recreate a similar environment to that of a small working nail salon, primarily its most common behavior: painting nails."

John nodded. Yes. Yes, of course. The doctor sighed. He knew what was coming, oh yes he did. In three, two—

"John—"

"No."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, leaned forward slightly, and went for the jugular. "So let me understand this. You'll die for me, but you won't let me polish your nails."

John was less than three seconds from capitulating because that's what he does, when instead he had a very good idea. Two could play at this game. Oh yes.

The doctor also leaned forward slightly, said softly, "You lisp."

Sherlock covered his surprise by picking up his tea.

"Why didn't I know that about you before?"

The detective dipped a finger into the cold brew for no particular reason, swirled it around.

"Can you help me with something?"

Sherlock frowned, lifted his finger, let tea drip from the tip and back into the cup.

"Why did it make me want you so bad I hurt?"

One of Sherlock's legs reflexively slid out from under him, and he sat a little straighter. He peered at his lover. The moment John had mentioned the lisp Sherlock had filled in a hundred jeers he'd endured from the time he could talk until nearly twelve, when he'd finally learned how to tame his tongue. The lisp was one of a dozen reasons he rarely drank and why he had almost never let anyone see him high. "What?"

John belatedly realized that Sherlock had thought he was mocking him. "I want to use your brilliant mind to figure out why I wanted to ravish you right there on the floor when I heard you sound so…"

A smile crept over Sherlock's face as he continued to play with his tea. "—vulnerable. That's the word you're looking for. But you knew the answer to your question before you even asked."

John opened his mouth and though the detective was still looking at his teacup he knew exactly what the other man would say. "Absolutely not John."

"But—"

"No. That's not a fair trade. I will not say spider for you. Or sink. Or sorry. Or anything else that starts with S. Not that way." Sherlock stood. "I'll paint my own nails thank you." He started walking toward the loo but stopped and turned after a few feet. "In the meantime you can consider it your mission if you like, to see if you can make me do it again." He narrowed his eyes, sly. "But I will bet you anything you care to wager that you won't succeed."

Looking like a tousle-haired teddy bear swathed in a thick jumper and an over-stuffed armchair, John's cheeks flushed and he smiled. Could a teddy bear smile be called evil? Calculating?

There were a hundred reasons Sherlock would never send John away, but this, his ability to surprise him, to act as if he was smarter than Sherlock, even if he wasn't, was right up there at the top of the list. "What? What are you thinking? Tell me what you're thinking." Sherlock's eyes went fierce. "Stop thinking, John. Stop. No fair. Stop it."

John laughed and only just refrained from rubbing his hands together. "Okay, Sassy Girl. Let's go do our nails."