Warning: Here we have men who are mildly soused. If guys making drunken overtures towards each other are likely to offend you on grounds of dubious consent, you probably won't want to read this.

Chapter Four: Battle Hair and A Bit of Rough

Sherlock sighs. "Don't try to deduce, John. You're mediocre at it during the best of times, and worse when you're angry."

"Mediocre" is probably the nicest thing Sherlock has ever said about anyone else's deduction skills, so John does his best to be reasonable. Sometimes, when alcohol is involved, John's best is not that good.

"Listen, you arrogant twat," he hisses. "Do not patronise me in public right now, or I will mediocre your arse until your prostate explodes."

"Is that a promise?" Sherlock hisses back. "Because believe me, you'll find me well up for it."

Oh, God. Why do I get stiff in my pants every time my posh, clueless flatmate tries to use slang? Next thing he'll be saying he's dead chuffed, and I'll have to shag him senseless against the Camembert tray.

"So Julien's not your boyfriend, then," says John. "Or an off-and-on thing that you'll be going back to the minute I let you get a leg over."

Sherlock shifts. "He's an acquaintance. Obviously." His pupils are blown, although John can't tell if it's due to arousal or the relative darkness under the staircase.

Is he actually … blushing? No, not possible. The man doesn't blush. It must be a trick of the shadows.

"Yes, obviously," John replies. "Sherlock, he had his hands all over you."

"So do you," says Sherlock, raising a pointed eyebrow in the direction of his waist, to which John is still clinging like a limpet. If this is a hint that he should let go, the doctor doesn't take it. If anything, he digs in harder.

"I knew him at uni," says Sherlock.

"And that thing at the end with him pawing at your hair?" prods John, spurred on by his flatmate's failure to elaborate. "What was that?"

"He says I have battle hair. That I still have it," Sherlock clarifies.

"What?"

"It's a French idiom. It means your hair is … sticking up." Sherlock runs a hand through his insubordinate curls. "Unruly. Like it's been through the war."

Incredulity washes over John like a wave. "He says you have bed head?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"He says you still have bed head," amends the doctor, eyes narrowing. "Sherlock, when did he last see you in bed?"

"You never get this stroppy over a figure of speech when you're completely sober," snaps Sherlock. "But yes, we used to sleep together. No, we no longer do. Also, your fingernails are making indentations in my hip."

John loosens his grip so that it's no longer enough to draw blood. "When you were at uni…" he starts, not knowing how to finish.

"Yes?"

"Did Julien take advantage of you?"

Sherlock's face is unreadable. "No."

"Did he? Because I will slit his jugular if he did." John contemplates smashing a bottle of Château d'Yquem against a table and slicing Julien open with the edge.

Sherlock groans. "Could you satisfy my curiosity about something, doctor? Did you even take the Hippocratic oath, or did you just mouth the words while everyone else said it?"

"I just moved my lips. Did he hurt you? I don't mean tonight. Did he ever hurt you?"

"No," says Sherlock, irritably. "Damn it, John, what's got into you? I'm not accustomed to being on the small end of the microscope."

John allows himself one last question. "What did he whisper to you? When you said, 'It isn't like that.'"

"He suggested I was reverting to type."

"What did he mean by that?"

"He was referring to you. I believe the exact term he used was 'bit of rough.' Like everyone else in Greater London, he thinks we're fucking, and I've already made it clear to you that I wish we were. Now if you'll let go of me, I'm going to get something to drink."

John watches, stunned, as Sherlock heads to the bar. It's not that he's surprised that yet another member of the European Union thinks he and Sherlock are having it off. It's that nobody has ever called him, John Watson, brilliant surgeon and decorated veteran, a "bit of rough." Or, for that matter, "Sherlock's type." For a moment, John is quietly thrilled.

"You're drunk," says John, once the cab has dropped them off at Baker Street. They are pressed up against the wall in the hallway, giggling like monkeys.

"I'm not," says Sherlock, his enunciation flawless. "I lisp when I'm drunk. At the moment, I am excruciatingly sober."

John proceeds to laugh himself almost literally sick. He clutches feebly at his midriff.

"Stop – my stomach – please stop. You lisp when you're drunk? Oh God, God. You're pissed now, but remind me to get you completely off your face. I'll sell tickets in front of Scotland Yard."

Sherlock gives his flatmate an amused smile. "Really, John. If anyone is inebriated, it's you."

"You're amazing. Just amazing. Your words get even longer when you've had a few. No, I'm not drunk. My last drink was hours ago. You only started drinking at the end."

They make it up the stairs and stagger into the flat. Sherlock collapses on the sofa, and John collapses against him.

"I'm not going to shag you tonight, you know," says John, his head against Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock tenses up. "Why not?"

"It's not on. It's been a long night, and I'm tired and annoyed." John can't help muttering under his breath, "Should have got some in Hampstead whilst you had the chance. I'm sure he'd have let you hold Oliver Cromwell's spike while he did you up against the Aston Martin."

Sherlock looks vaguely horrified. "Are you still harping on about that? I'm not even thinking about him. I'm thinking about you, you idiot."

"Yeah, right," groans John, giving in to a moment of bitterness. "Go on, lie down in a vat of Beluga caviar and give him a booty call. I'm sure your children will be gorgeous. Really. The cheekbones alone..."

"John, I hardly think…"

"For God's sake, I realise it's not biologically possible to knock another man up via sexual intercourse. I know you think I'm a glorified errand boy, but I do have a medical degree."

"Yes, and I know you think I can tell when you're joking," says Sherlock, frustrated, "but often, I can't. Before we left the house, you made it plain that you want to tie me up and use me by the fireplace. Am I to assume that you meant in some platonic way? As an umbrella stand, perhaps."

John moans. "Stop it. You're reminding me of your brother."

"Fine, you deserve it. After whipping me up into a fine froth, you imply that you don't want me because someone else got there first. What am I supposed to deduce from that?"

"Yeah, well, you're not exactly Mr. Transparent yourself. I made a play for you at Angelo's…"

"Just so we're clear, that's what that was?"

"Of course it was."

"Stupid, so stupid," says Sherlock, tugging his own hair in exasperation. "Like when I thought Harry was your brother."

John puts his hand on Sherlock's to keep him from pulling his hair out. Once Sherlock's hand goes still, John lets it drop.

"There's no shame in it. You thought I was straight. Good deduction. I was, up until I met you."

"In my defense, there is no article of clothing in the world more blatantly redolent of heterosexuality than a slightly baggy, oatmeal-coloured, cable-knit jumper on a short, tough man who has just come back from the war. It's the polar opposite of neon-green briefs."

"Well, I'd just met you that afternoon. When was I going to buy new clothes?"

"Dear Jim," intones Sherlock. "In light of recent events, I require a more flamboyant wardrobe. Please fix it for me."

John laughs. "Is that your imitation of me? Because it's terrible."

"I don't want to imitate you. There's only one of you. That number is both necessary and sufficient."

John pulls his head back so he can peer into Sherlock's face. "See, this is what I don't get. That – what you just said – was romantic. You've never been romantic towards me until today. You can't hold it against me if I'm confused."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "John, although I've accepted amorous overtures in the past, I never claimed to be experienced at making them. I've never asked for sex in my life. I only started propositioning you because you were taking your bloody time."

He's never asked for sex in his life? No, of course not. With that body, he's never had to. In any case, John finds it difficult to imagine that his twitchy, cerebral flatmate has had much experience. No doubt sex, like breathing, is over-rated.

"I give you points for originality," says John, thinking of Sherlock's writhing, one-man mating dance of deletion, "but how do I know you're not chatting me up for the novelty of the thing? You know, as an experiment."

Sherlock traces the side of John's face with a long, pale finger. "You're worried I don't value your friendship," he says, finally. "That I only want sex. That this is just something else I'm looking to take from you, like your phone or your computer or your half-drunk cup of tea."

"Erm, yes," admits John. "That's about right. I know you, Sherlock, but not in this context."

"Similarly, I'm distracted by the thought that your affection for me is primarily platonic, and that, although you would tolerate sex with me at first, you would soon realise you didn't like it and revert to women."

"I think I would like it, if I knew you weren't just having me on."

Sherlock snaps his fingers decisively, then shrugs off his jacket and finishes unbuttoning his already partially open shirt.

"And you're doing what, now?" asks John, eyes wide.

"We need more data. Here, put your hand on my body and tell me you don't want me."

When John, gobsmacked, doesn't move, Sherlock takes him by the wrist and places John's palm on his exposed chest.

"Think of it as the low-budget, field-surgery equivalent of a polygraph test, but better, since this actually works. Hmm, best practices require a control. First question: what's your name?"

"John Hamish Watson."

"True."

Sherlock's upper chest is cool and smooth, and his heart beats fast against John's fingertips.

"So you're evaluating…"

"Yes, yes, temperature, respiration, perspiration, pulse. Also scent. You smell delicious, John. Second question: where do you live?"

"With you, you bloody nutter. God help me, I live with you." Despite the lack of proximity to the refrigerator, the cool air is making Sherlock's nipples hard, and portions of John's anatomy are following suit.

"True. Third question: do you want me? Not last week or last month or yesterday, but right now. Do you?"

"Yes. Absolutely, yes."

Sherlock's face breaks into a radiant smile. "True," he concludes.

John pulls off his jumper and unbuttons his shirt. Then he places Sherlock's hand on his heart.

"Just one question. Am I an experiment?"

The colour rises to Sherlock's face. "John, you can't tell anything without a control. Ask something to which you know the answer. Do you even know how to read the data?"

"Never mind that. Am I an experiment?"

"No. You are my friend, my colleague, and my partner. I care for you, and I want…" Sherlock looks out of his depth. He fumbles for the vocabulary. "To please you? Yes."

"Well, then," says John, grinning. "Why didn't you say so? Come on." And he grabs Sherlock's hand and pulls him off the sofa, through the kitchen, and into Sherlock's bedroom.

A/N: All thanks go to my beta, snoopydance4me, plus AfroGeekGoddess, annabelleaurelius, drjamband, littleredfez and moonofglass. You are the living avatars of awesome.

No sex this chapter. Hmm, maybe next chapter? Or perhaps they're just going off to work on their blogs. Reviews make my fingers type faster and dirtier.

Also, if you haven't read AfroGeekGoddess's A Thousand Delicious Deaths, do yourself a favor and go read it. Aloud. It's brilliant.