John was reading the newspaper from the comfort of his chair when Sherlock came out of the bathroom wearing a thin white towel. John thanked the heavens he hadn't walked out naked again. Sherlock had no concept of modesty. He disappeared into his room and came out wearing his only pair of jeans and a white button up shirt.

"You don't have to," John started.

"I know I don't," Sherlock interrupted.

"Then why are you? Still playing that is," John asked.

Sherlock fussed with his hair in the mirror above the fireplace. He spun around in a slow circle, trying to catch a glimpse of himself at every angle.

"You look fine. Let's go! She wouldn't care if you showed up looking like a drug addict," John said.

"Don't be boring John. Molly is clearly interested in Graham."

"Yeah? Then why are you primping?"

"I'm not primping!"

"And it's Greg," John said.

"Who?"

"Greg. Greg Lestrade. That's his name. You have a map of London permanently etched into your brain but you can't remember the man's name. Why is that?"

John tugged at Sherlock's collar, dragging him towards the door. They piled into a cab, Sherlock holding his overcoat in his lap and John holding that evening's game on his own, headed towards Lestrade's house.

"Cards against Humanity," Sherlock read.

John smirked and held the box closer to him.

"You'll find out soon enough," John replied to the unasked question.

The cab drove them out to a small house in Soho. The lights were on, bathing the steps in a yellow light. John rang the bell and stood back to wait for Lestrade to answer. Sherlock leaned out of the doorway and attempted to look through an open window. John pulled him back just as the door opened.

"Come on in! Molly's already here."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes then swept past Lestrade and into the sitting room. Molly was reclining against the sofa with a glass of red wine. It had turned her cheeks pink like a pale rose. Her hair was down and fell in rivulets around her face. Sherlock sat down silently besides her.

"Did John tell you what we're playing?" she asked with a giggle.

"He didn't have to," Sherlock replied.

Molly found this extremely amusing and laughed into her glass as she took another sip.

"You don't have a clue, do you?" she teased.

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"No but I'll put in the effort," he replied.

They joined together around a small kitchen table and John put the box down. Inside were black cards and several pencils.

"Let's play a round so Sherlock gets the idea, yeah?" John said.

He nodded towards Molly and the blush in her cheeks deepened and spread across her face. She took a card and read aloud.

"Why am I sticky?" she asked and her eyes flew to Sherlock, then back to her wine.

Sherlock grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil.

"I thought you hadn't played before," John accused.

"It doesn't take a genius to figure out how the game is played," Sherlock replied.

"Doesn't hurt either," Lestrade muttered into his beer bottle. He went to set it down and his elbow jostled Molly's. She sloshed wine over her cup and onto her pants.

"Christ sorry Molls," Lestrade said. "Here, I'll find you something else to wear."

"Stop glaring at Greg," John leaned over and whispered to Sherlock.

Molly came back in blue dress that was almost too small on her and very much too short. Sherlock's eyes widened a fraction then returned to his piece of paper. He threw it in with the rest of the pile and Molly took them into her hands.

"Why am I sticky? Sherlock is doing an experiment. Very funny John."

"Hey you don't know it was me. And it's a very plausible explanation," John said.

"Why am I sticky? Sunscreen and honey make a bad combination. I wouldn't know! Why am I sticky? You are covered in an adhesive agent after a failed attempt..."

Molly paused to turn the paper over then continued reading, "failed attempt to create a replacement for formaldehyde."

"Wow," Lestrade said.

"It's a reasonable assumption," Sherlock shrugged.

"Uh, I pick Greg's," Molly said, holding up his paper.

"Are you supposed to know it's his?" Sherlock asked.

"It isn't supposed to be a secret. Everyone's handwriting is different. Yours is terrible by the way," she said.

"Point to Greg," John said, pulling the next card. "Hashtag fill in the blank, problems."

"Oh like #first world problems!" Molly said, bouncing up and down in her chair in excitement. Her wine glass was empty and was quickly refilled by Lestrade. The room was suddenly quiet as they all turned to their pencil and paper.

"Here we are then," John said. "Hashtag drug problems. Huh, could be Greg or Sherlock."

"Oi!" Greg protested.

"And hashtag love problems. Hmn. Finally hashtag money problems. You're all terrible at this game. I pick love problems because that's all I seem to have since I started a flat-share."

Sherlock leaned over to take the point and Lestrade's jaw dropped.

"I thought drug problem was yours," Lestrade said.

"Don't be obvious," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Wait, this doesn't even look like your handwriting," John said, holding up the piece of paper.

"Why would I keep it the same. Easier to copy Lestrade's."

"Which was your card Molly?" John asked.

"Drug problems. There was a cadaver - drug overdose as cause of death. First thing that popped into my head really."

"Money problems Greg?" John snickered. "I don't know if that's supposed to mean you're having money problems or I am."

"Please John. He knows about your gambling addiction," Sherlock said.

"It's not an addiction! Christ."

Sherlock reached over to draw the next card. His eyes flicked to Molly then he read the card like it was the most tedious unwanted task in the universe. "Oh my god, where is my blank."

John burried his head in his hands then rubbed at his eyes.

"I need another pint," he muttered.

There was a moment of silence broken only by the scratching of pencils.

"I won't bother to shuffle since each response will be quite obvious," Sherlock drawled. "Where is my appendix. Where is my..."

Sherlock cleared his throat and John looked curiously over his shoulder.

"You have to read it Sherlock. It's part of the game," he said with a wicked smile.

"Where is my vibrator. Where is my sex drive. How droll."

"You could pick mine," Molly volunteered.

"Well the sex drives of everyone at this table are within normal societal expectations. In addition we all have our appendices in tact. So that leaves this one."

Sherlock dropped the paper with the word "vibrator" written in large capital letters.

"Goody!" Molly squealed. Her hand reached out to take the card at the same time Sherlock moved to give it to her. Their fingers brushed together and Molly bit down on her lip, dropping her eyes to the ground. Sherlock let his fingers linger a moment, sliding them carefully down her hand before releasing his hold on the card. John cleared his throat and Molly practically threw the next card onto the table.

"When paper money becomes a thing of the past then 'blank' will be our currency," she read.

This round went by faster. The boys threw their papers face up and Sherlock's handwriting was back to a messy scrawl.

"Onions? God I hope not. They make me cry when I cut them. I almost lost the tip of my pinky finger once."

"Sorry couldn't think of anything unoffensive," John said.

"Intelligence," Molly laughed, her head thrown back to expose her pale throat again the blue of the dress. Greg cleared his throat and glanced away. Molly wiped at her eyes and turned her head to Sherlock. He held her gaze in his.

"That's yours," she said softly.

Sherlock leaned over so only she could hear him.

"Good thing we both have an ample supply," he whispered. Molly could only nod.

"And finally our new currency will be irrelevant since the human race won't last that long. That's a long answer."

"It was a philosophical question. It deserved respect! Besides you don't the human race as well as I do," Greg said adamantly.

At that moment Lestrade's cell went off. He walked away as he answered it. When he came back he was holding his jacket and keys.

"You're all welcome to stay. I've got to bugger off."

"Anything we're needed for?" John asked hopefully. Greg snickered. John was an addict alright and it had nothing to do with his passion at the race track.

"Nah. Wouldn't even be a 3. Goodnight. Sorry Molls!" he called as he shut the door behind him.

"Well I'm calling a cab. Coming Sherlock?" John asked.

"I think I'll stay. Have a glass of wine."

"You don't drink."

"But I do plan to stay. Good night, Dr. Watson."

John found himself out of the doorstep where he was only an hour before. He slipped into his jacket and went to hail a cab.

Notes: I started this as a one shot and it was titled "Sherlock and John Play Games". It turned out not to make much sense when the characters started acting of their own accord. So I changed the name and added this chapter.