Disclaimer: I don't own a thing, obviously. A. N. So...I discovered I totally missed a dear friend's birthday. Like, by 6 months+. And also I forgot her pen name since I now know her real identity. But this is not a reason not to write her something anyway, right? I know I'm a piece of work, Ayu, and you deserve better. But don't hate me, please. XD (Everyone else, hope you enjoy!)
(Don't) Kiss and Tell
Sherlock won't survive if he's discovered. No, there's not any criminal stalking him. That, he knows how to handle. Besides, John wouldn't let anyone murder him. His blogger has proved it time and again, right from the start. And it's part of the problem.
Because how was Sherlock supposed to not fall in love, when John is...John? Caring, and protective, and it's not like Sherlock picked his own military kink – it was there way before he met his army doctor (captain) flatmate – and so damn funny, and he could spend ages listing all the ways John is amazing but he's already close to not making sense, so. That's not good. Especially for what he's trying to do. When you're writing, run-on sentences and ambiguity and your brain spitting a jumbled mess of (mostly, really) feelings are not what the doctor ordered. Oh god. He really needs to breathe and untangle his thoughts if he's going to do this. Then again, he couldn't slow down if he was paid to. John might take all the time in the world when he's writing, thinking whole sentences between one pecked letter and the next, and going back four times in his brain before he manages to find where the f is (even after all this time). Sherlock rushes through. Well, at least that helps with the not getting caught.
Starting at all was a bad idea, really. But he's had worse vices. Anyone Googles himself, right? But not anyone finds RPF fics of himself. He has John's blog to thank for that, mainly; the media wouldn't have come sniffing if they didn't have a fanbase already. How so many people figured out that he's in love with his flatmate is the true mystery. Sure, there are all the Y/N and the occasional Lestrade or...anyone else he's been semi-publicly in contact with, really. But the majority has deduced johnlock long ago.
It should be awkward; annoying; even appalling. He has enough common sense to know that. He hasn't dared to broach the subject with John, but he's sure all the same what the man's reaction would be. But for him? Every new story is just more fodder for his fantasies. Slipping from reading to writing was the most natural thing. After all, no story can be really as accurate as his own imagination.
Sure, the only really safe place for his desires is his own mind. But publishing means he can delete that particular idea and still find it, anytime he gets a craving. And with how many of his thoughts keep circling around John, being able to do away with at least some of them is its own kind of relief. Sometimes he suspects John will keep growing and growing inside him until he kicks out all extraneous knowledge, or close to it. So he's grateful to every sharp-eyed, if intrusive, fan writing about them. The thicker the screen, the less chance there's that anyone will notice his contributions.
ApparentlyObvious might not be the cleverest pen name, but then again, he counts more on John having enough self-preservation not to delve too deep, should he be tempted to do the same, than anything else. As for anyone else in his life...Mycroft is the only one likely to know all about it, and no amount of dissimulation in his alias would help. At the very least, his brother is wise enough not to even hint at it, much less tease him in public. He doesn't doubt that Mycroft would sneer at the whole pathetic indulgence. But who knows. Maybe it'll prove to him that Sherlock is not afraid of sex.
The...actually, author at the moment, slams his laptop closed when a cup of tea appears by his side. John must even have asked. How has he not noticed? This was too close a call.
"What have they done for the laptop to deserve this?" John asks, with an amused smile. Oh no. The last thing he needs is for his flatmate to become curious. Sure, he might not be on Mycroft's level, but John is surprisingly insightful sometimes. And as stubborn as any Holmes had ever been. If he gets on the scent of this...moving out will be a start.
"Idiots," he grumbles.
"Who, specifically?"
Well, the best lies have some truth in them. Without any time to concoct an elaborate excuse, sticking to the truth will also help. "Would you believe people expect me and Moriarty to have compatible kinks?"
"Oh, you found those." So John has seen fics. Fine. An accident, undoubtedly. Just like how Sherlock started. "Yeah, I don't know where they got that idea from."
There's the usual anger tinged with bitterness in his blogger's tone when the Moriarty subject is touched. And even if Sherlock feels guilty about picking this, out of all the pairings he's seen, John's tone still warms him (and might have to be filed for later). Because the mere mention of the consulting criminal sends John into a 'ready to fight' frame of mind, and if that alone wasn't hot enough, there's the ' for Sherlock' angle. He can't let himself swoon right now. Lucky him that he's already sitting, the table covering most of him. Any sudden blood flow rerouting should go unnoticed.
The tea feels so timely, now. A few sips ease his dry mouth. He just needs a moment to get himself reined back in and out of his daydreaming. After all, there's not going to be anymore writing today. Not with John hovering. If Sherlock had respected boundaries first, maybe he wouldn't have to fear a glance to whatever he's busying himself with. But invading John's personal space (and his privacy) under the justification of natural inquisitiveness is one of the few ways he has to feed his baser instincts. He has never even considered stopping himself. Not when, after surprisingly few lectures, John has caved in, as he has to so many other quirks of his flatmate's, and apparently decided that a minimum of reciprocation is all he wants.
That time, his secret is safe... But it doesn't take long for John to become suspicious. Not specifically sniffing out the truth yet, but that Sherlock is Up To Something. He doesn't blame John for wanting to investigate – Sherlock's initiatives have a track record of being more than a bit not good at times – but still. His flatmate is way smarter than he gives himself credit for. He might not always deduce right at first, but he hasn't been trained by Mycroft. Given clues enough and time, he will ultimately discover his secret. And John is more than stubborn enough to keep at it until he finds out the facts. Unless Sherlock feeds him a wrong solution, of course. The detective's surge of distaste is unexpected – he's never been above a little deceit to reach his goals, after all. And the mix of disappointment and disgust that Sherlock expects to face should be more than enough motivation for anything.
Still, that will have to be a last resort. Maybe... Maybe if he just stops writing for a while, John's suspicions will wane. That should be easy, surely. After all, the stories are only a recent development.
A few weeks in, and Sherlock is considering a series of experiments on the addictive properties of writing. Without his outlet, there is nowhere to put his fantasies except his brain, and they are starting to take up entirely too much room. He should just delete them after he's indulged in them once, like he used to. But he can't get over a reluctance he's never struggled with before. What would once have been a fleeting idea keeps being added to. over and over, scenarios overflowing from the drawers he hastily slams them in.
"I don't know what you were doing, but do it again," John declares one night, coming back from work to a sulky flatmate. (It isn't a sulk. Not really. He's just trying to keep his mind palace in some semblance of order. Again. Sure, he could write while John is out. And, with the amount of ideas he's amassed, easily forget to check the time and stop before he's caught. No. He isn't going to risk that anymore.)
"I don't know what you mean," he replies. What else can he say?
John uses put upon sigh no. 15, reserved for when Sherlock is being purposefully obnoxious. "Yes, you do. I frankly thought it was some sort of grand plan you had going on, what with the way you took longer than usual to start on a bored fit, but no experiment ever popped up to destroy half the flat. If giving it up whatever it was is so disheartening, put the scheme back on track. Just let me know what I should expect. Were you on the brink of sweet-talking Molly into relinquishing a whole dead body this time, or what?"
"Why would I need a whole body?"
"I'm sure you'd come up with a perfectly sound reason." The fond smile accompanying the words makes Sherlock giggle, high on the affection..which he isn't going to lose by having his dreams exposed.
Sherlock is about ready to give in, hole up in his bedroom and write again, before his brain implodes, when he's distracted from his pursuits by John. As usual. His blogger is at the laptop, again, and usually Sherlock doesn't even bother to observe him, because John's pecking at the keys is enough to send a man spare. But he needs to gauge the situation. Writing poetry for yet another perspective girlfriend? Blog post? Mindlessly scrolling Youtube for silly animals? Each option will keep John occupied for a different time – time where Sherlock will (hopefully) be safe from his flatmate wanting to involve him in something or another.
John's frown, though, is odd. It's not his bored frown, not the looking for the right word one (the detective sometimes idly wonders if he's stolen that look since first noticing it). Definitely not the incredulous one that leads to "People did what? Expert's opinion, Lock, what drugs must they have been on?" Nine out of ten, the answer is just their own stupidity. And it's not even the angry one, that makes the detective sure that if he had the person responsible in the room, John would be smiling instead – before putting a bullet in them. It's definitely not the sad, sometimes defeated look Harry's messages are likely to evoke. No, John seems worried. And Sherlock needs to know.
"Something troubling?"
And now John looks... guilty? Why would he? John is good. He doesn't hurt people who don't deserve it, and never loses time regretting what he does to the ones that have it coming. He's definitely just clicked an X, though. Guilty about whatever website he was on? Something to investigate later, certainly.
His blogger shakes his head. "Just overreacting. Someone who used to post a lot for a while has suddenly disappeared, but I'm sure they're just busy. Or on holiday. Or something. It doesn't mean they're sick or on their deathbed. Sorry. Professional bias, you know."
"If you want, it'll take me only a few minutes to track down their IP address. That'll be a good start to see what they might actually be up to. Sure, it's probably nothing...but they might be victims of an interesting murder." He grins.
"No." John's tone is...surprisingly forceful, which he really should know by now will only have the opposite effect. "You're not going to cyberstalk an unfortunate soul who has better things to do in real life than – post comments online."
Oh please. As if Sherlock wouldn't notice the hesitation. Commenting is definitely not how John noticed the current ghost. Add talk of stalking... Lover? Has John added online sexting to his string of girlfriends? Sherlock will have to find her. As a public service. Anyone who willingly ghosts a horny Watson should surely be sectioned. Still, he shrugs. She's not important – and he'll show John. If his friend decides to take it as acquiescence to his request, it won't be Sherlock's responsibility.
He ends up playing the violin that day, instead. Brahms' Hungarian Dance n. 5 first, which for some mysterious reason always makes John grin like a loon. Cheering him up is his duty as flatmate and friend, after all. Then whatever comes to mind. After a while, John seems to have forgotten his worries, and trots to the kitchen. Tea first, and then asking Sherlock if he has preferences for tonight's dinner. Of course he has no opinion, curiosity still too sharp for him bother with food.
But John seems to have forgotten about it, and doesn't even hint at bringing his laptop upstairs when he retires to bed, which would put a considerable spanner in Sherlock's plans. No, everything is just laying there for him to learn. John didn't even erase his history. Not that he often does, but he's not often a mix of guilty and worried, either.
Wait, no. There must be an error. Maybe he misjudged when he 's actually noticed the situation? Not that it happens often, but- it can't be. It's embarrassing enough that John flitted by that page in the first place. He moves earlier and later, but nothing else that would fit a 'posted a lot, then disappeared' description materializes, for the sake of his sanity. Their sanity. ApparentlyObvious' author page – and its lack of updates – stares back mockingly. John has noticed him. Why? How? Could it be a mean sort of prank? But John's not mean, and while clever in his own right, he would have had to deduce his identity, premeditate today's interaction... It's just not his style.
Still, further digging is required. It doesn't take long, now that he knows where to look, to find John's account on AO3 – password saved, so he doesn't even have to wonder which movie or what else first brought him here. With his pop culture knowledge so severely lacking, Sherlock could have been stumped for the first time. Sherlock is tempted to head-desk. TheWarDoctor. John might as well have signed by name, but – the John Hurt profile image had confused him. He's commented and bookmarked all Sherlock has ever written. Sherlock should really retire, because how could a casual Doctor Who reference blind him to word patterns and everything else that screamed John at him?
Truth is, he has noticed. And oh, he's played pretend so many times, imagined John was actually enjoying his stories, while telling himself not to be stupid. That it couldn't happen. But – it did happen. All these reviews, these bookmarks...definitely too long and complex a work if it's all meant to be nothing more than a joke.
What now, then? Before he can manage to think himself out of it (his inner Mycroft is an asshole), Sherlock rushes upstairs, shaking John awake. It's not long since he retired, but John has the ability to instantly fall asleep when he wants to.
"What's up? Case?"
Instead of answering, Sherlock dives for a kiss. Instead, of the immediate enthusiasm he expects, he's shoved off. He should have known. He shouldn't have –
"Sherlock, what in God's name are you up to?" John is still panting a bit (and isn't that doing things to him), but stern.
"I thought – my mistake." He's about to run away, even quicker than he climbed up, but a hand traps his arm. He's going to have to give more answers than that. Fine. Maybe he can learn where he's gone astray, then.
"You thought what? Is this about – about oxygen levels, blood flow, or...is this the grand plan you'd dashed? Tell me." It would be better if his tone didn't do things to Sherlock's blood flow. Namely, sharply redirecting it south. But really, what is John rambling about?
"It is... tangentially related, I guess."
"You guess." John doesn't sound impressed, and with the opinion the consulting detective normally boasts of guesses, it's no wonder. The word just slipped out.
"There was never any plan, not really. But I did suddenly stop doing something, and you've noticed. More than once, actually. And you were concerned about it, and the bookmarks, John, and I...I thought I was more than a wank fantasy!" Just because someone enjoys something in fiction, it doesn't mean that they want it to break into their room. Sherlock knows that, of course. But still. John.
His Captain actually surrenders at that, both hands in the air, stammering "What?" and really, couldn't he find another word?
"You're not the only one who writes. I stopped rather than risk being caught, lest you hate it, but you very much didn't hate it, did you, TheWarDoctor? What is it, then, if you never meant to make it real? Just fantasizing about a way to shut me up, maybe?"
John laughs, which doesn't help his nerves. "Can't say the idea didn't flit through my mind, once or twice."
Oh. Why had ever expected anything else?
"But let me make sure I have things straight." Straight might not be the best adjective, but Sherlock isn't going to argue semantics now. "You're ApparentlyObvious. You figured out I appreciate your style, and that's what brought the sudden kissing on. Not because a man's alibi depends on it. Or that you decided you need data of some sort. I like it, you like it."
Sherlock shrugs. "It seemed a natural evolution."
"It is."
John's sudden grin is answered with a confused frown, but Sherlock refuses to ask what in turn.
"What do I always ask, Sherlock? Walk me through it. You can't just jump to conclusions. Especially when my heart is on the line."
"And mine?" The retort escapes him before he can even think. He's getting emotional whiplash here.
"Apologies. I promise I'll take care of it, now we're on the same page. Speaking of same page... did I interrupt the muse?" John keeps getting closer with every word, and oh ...does he mean... really?
The next kiss is all Sherlock ever hoped for, and more. He wants to keep it forever in his mind palace. But his usually keen brain feels ready to melt. There will be no counting pulse rates this time. Not when his own is dancing like that.
When his mind is aware again of more than John-John-John, he finds himself laying on the bed, entwined with him. Before they can get to anything more (what? So many ideas, so little time) he blurts out, "You said muse. Am I...supposed to write this?"
John chuckles again, but this time there is no fear twisting him in knots. "If you want to. And if I'm good enough, I guess. Let's find out, huh?"
Sherlock can't wait.