"My fault? My fault. I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," said 'Watson,' who completely knew what Sherlock was talking about.
Wet curls mashed this way and that, Sherlock rose from the sofa like some sort of land-bound water god. The look was fetching.
"You look fetching," John said, employing a Sherlock-quality diversion. It fell on damp, semi-deaf ears.
"You spend an inordinate amount of time trying to brain-wash me with your manners and your morals. I let you do this because it makes you happy."
John opened his mouth to say something rude, Sherlock looked briefly reflective, said softly, "And because it makes me a better person."
Everyone absorbed this, then moved on.
"However, it goes both ways, Dr. Watson. You must give if you get."
They were not discussing anything remotely pornographic—of which John was currently aware—but Sherlock's emphasis on those G-words was both aurally striking and…stirring. However, Dr. Watson pushed those thoughts aside. They had twenty minutes until the curry was delivered, more than enough time to bicker this on through to conclusion, not nearly enough time for a quality rut. And the boys of Baker Street nearly always favour high-calibre coupling over any other kind.
But that was neither here nor there, what was here was John, and John went and pretty much almost ruined everything. He apologised.
"You're right, Sherlock and I'm wrong."
In two years as lovers and then one as husbands John has said those words in that order exactly never.
Wait, that's not precisely true. He's apologised, he's admitted misunderstandings, misinformation, mistakes. But rarely right away. Usually it's after eight hundred weeks of squabbling, then three hundred days of qualified admissions. Because John and Sherlock? They bicker. They've done it from the day they met, they will do it until the moment they shuffle off their mortal coil. It is, was, and ever shall be one of the many, many ways they say I love you, be mine.
Which is why John expressing his regrets so early in the game was not sporting.
The good doctor realised his error immediately and to cover his faux pas he argued about his lack of argument.
"It's not like you'd listen, now is it? Because I could talk until I was blue and I'm sure you'd just swan around, selectively deaf, until I got to the words 'brilliant' or 'darling.'"
Sherlock swanned around the sitting room, waiting for John to stop talking. When at last he did, Sherlock completely ignored the entire last two minutes and said self-righteously, "So what should you have done under that bridge that you emphatically did not do, Mr. Watson?"
Watson, Mr. Watson, Dr. Watson—this was new. John liked it. He wasn't sure why. It, however, emphatically did not matter. What mattered was that Sherlock was now standing in front of a sitting room window and approximately one thousand times John has asked him to refrain from doing so naked, those words, however, are some of the many to which Sherlock is selectively deaf.
But that was fine, it was really rather fine.
Because standing in front of that window, pontificating? Sherlock was also posing. John wasn't sure if it was intentional but, like the whole 'Watson' thing, that absolutely didn't matter.
"I'll tell you what you should have done," said the unclad detective, hand on hip, hip thrust to the side so that one butt cheek loomed, more saucy and plump than the other. "You should have said to me, 'Sherlock Holmes, genius detective, dashing man that I love—'"
At this point Sherlock paused to draw himself up and puff out his chest in a dashing manner. The marvelous side effect was that his arse stuck out even further, half-filling the sitting room with its ample swell.
"'—I suggest that you stay away from the stockbroker under the bridge, the one you located with nothing more than a hair sample and a half-cup of tepid tea, and here is my itemised list as to why.'"
Sherlock may or may not have lifted his chin and licked his lips in a very Watsonesque way, gearing up, no doubt, to hold forth in a fashion he deemed very Watsonesque. But he, at that moment, pushed a half-dry curl out of his eye and back amongst its brethren.
And all the Watson words jammed up in his throat dissolved into the thinnest of air, except two: "Oh shit."
Watson himself was brought up short by the spontaneous swearing. But just as he was about to say something Sherlock did something, and that something was to remove his hand from his head and lift the other hand near his head, essentially hovering both hands in the air as if he were about to lay hands upon his own self in Watsonesque frustration.
But he did not do that.
Instead he turned from the sitting room window—much to the chagrin of the third floor neighbour across the street—those long-fingered hands still suspended either side of his big-brained head, and Sherlock looked at John as if John knew exactly what was going on and would tell him how to proceed.
John knew what was going on: Something. Because something is always going on at 221B, and usually it's something Sherlock started, is in the middle of, forgot to finish, or for which he can be blamed. Yet this something, John sensed, was something that was maybe, just maybe, his fault.
Slowly, silently, as if making a foray across enemy lines, John rose and crept toward Sherlock, tread so stealthy even creaky floorboards did not creak.
When at last he stood before his husband, who looked down at him wide-eyed, hands still hovering either side of his dewy locks, John whispered, as if passing along intel about troop movements, "Something happened."
This profundity was met with a frantic nod.
John leaned confidentially close, whispered, "What?"
The detective had been expecting the doctor to tell him, but in lieu of that Sherlock just bowed his head.
A few heartbeats later—each coming more quickly than the last—John sent out a questing finger and tentatively touched one dark ringlet.
Nothing happened.
John thought about reclaiming his hand and saying something like, "Yes, well, curry should be here shortly, let's try the telly again," but John's a braver man than that and so John did what any straight-backed soldier would do: Sent out reinforcements in the form of a second finger.
Side by side, as if for moral support, fingers one and two moved tentatively toward those moist locks and a ringlet was carefully touched.
Nothing happened.
It was then that John thought to himself, well there you go who knows what he's on about this time let's just call the curry place back because really that food should have been here by now.
As if sensing these thoughts, Sherlock did the one thing he could have done that would cause John to do the thing he did: Sherlock bowed his head lower still. And so John, who can not ever resist a compliant Sherlock, sent forth half a battalion in the form of an entire hand and tentatively he brushed five fingertips across Sherlock's scalp.
At first John had no clue what happened because it happened so quickly. And what happened was that Sherlock fell to his knees. As in rattle the floor with the mighty thud of it fell.
But before John could look down and say, "What the hell just happened?" Sherlock looked up, hands still hovering beside his head, and said, "What just happened?"
In reply John a little bit stepped back, to make room for his innocence. Because if anyone in this room was sure of anything at all, it was John Watson, who was absolutely certain that this was completely his fault.
"John."
John tried stepping back again but Sherlock finally remembered what hands are for and took hold of one of his husband's fingers. He didn't do anything with it, but the clutching did mean John could no longer proclaim his blamelessness with retreat.
"John."
The man so named was caught between a spidery grip and a hard place. Admit he had a strong suspicion as to what was going on and he'd also admit he was the one who had caused it to go. Admit nothing and…well there really was no downside there and John was about to possibly do that when Sherlock blinked up at him with big, trusting eyes.
"You might or might not be having a reaction to the lice shampoo and as a matter of fact the label recommends applying it to a small patch of skin on the inside of your elbow first to test for allergic response but I forgot to do that part does it feel very terrible is it burning oh god Sherlock I'm so sorry."
"John."
This happens. This always happens. Sherlock goes nearly-non-verbal in times of stress, capable of uttering one syllable and one only and that one is a name and that name is…
"John?"
Usually when this happens John has the words for Sherlock. He'll go on and on when it's necessary that he go on and on, and usually that's easy to do because Sherlock's started something crazy, is in the middle of something crazy, or the crazy is on fire and so John can rant with verve, but not now. Now John found himself in an uncommon place—he was the one to blame—and so all John could do was this:
"I'm so sorry, Sherlock."
It was unfamiliar ground, this being the one in the right, and so Sherlock could be forgiven for mounting a high horse just now and riding hard, so to speak, but that was not what the good detective did.
There, on his knees, in front of a very contrite doctor and a third floor neighbour who'd gone and fetched her binoculars and her best friend, what Sherlock did was say something completely unexpected.
"John, pull my hair."
Benedict says sensitive follicles and a year later I sit here breathing funny. The world is a strange and beautiful place. More to come. Until they come. Of course.