Joan

John supposed she could burn it in acid. Sherlock would know exactly the right kind. Maybe they could chemically melt it down and form it into a ball and then send that ball off in a rocket-like explosion. Homemade fireworks could not be that hard. Sparks flew in their kitchen all the time.

Then again, a good old burning was always appreciated. Or a drowning. Drownings were a bit more messy but she could really draw out watching evil dissolve into nothingness over the course of the day.

"Are you trying to murder the paperwork again?" Danny, the receptionist, called from the door.

Paperwork always brought out John's darkest thoughts. She loathed it more than anything else in the world. It was not soothing, repetitive, and calming. It was boring, repetitive, and mundane. Nothing brought her more agitation than boring stacks of boring paperwork. It was like Sherlock's black mood curled around her psyche and dragged her to the toddler tantrum level of desperation for something else to do.

John could make Sherlock do police paperwork half the time, since it would keep her her job. What would it take to get her to do John's?

A literal arm and leg. At least.

"I'm feeling inspired by the witch trials," John muttered at the manila folder open in front of her.

Danny chuckled.

"Oh no," Martin's voice called from the door. "Must you be so barbaric, Joan? Could you not contemplate death by electric chair at least? Most of your paperwork must be electronic by now anyway. Seems fitting."

John looked up and smiled wide at the sight of all six feet of her boyfriend entering the room, carrying a bag from her favorite sandwich shop. Even on the weekend he was still dressed for work -collared shirt and trousers- with his brown hair swept back and matching beard combed into place.

"I was actually thinking of going in the opposite direction. How did they kill in the BC era?"

Martin smiled back and took a seat across from her as she cleared some room. "You mean BCE? Hm." He adjusted his thin glasses and squinted his bright brown eyes at the wall. "I think there was stoning. Drawn and quartered, of course. And I believe boiling in hot oil."

"Ah, well, can't go wrong with hot oil boiling can you?" John chuckled and bent over the desk to kiss him hello.

Martin chuckled against her mouth and kissed her once more. "Oil does have its uses."

John rolled her eyes at his flirting and pulled her sandwich over, digging in. "This is a nice surprise."

"You stayed up late last night fighting crime. Thought you might be hungry." Martin winked as he dipped into his own sandwich. He seemed to think it amusing what she and Sherlock got up to. There was no denying results but the blog did make everything seem a bit more entertaining.

Romanticized nonsense, Sherlock said. Apparently like all the other drivel John ingested through her novels.

"Starved," John agreed happily.

"What did you get up to?"

John chewed her bite longer than necessary, deciding what was best censored midday in her office. Danny did a wonderful job at the front desk, but he had a way of hearing the word club from across six lanes of traffic. One sniff of it and he would be begging her for details for months. "Dancing, actually. Ballroom, in a sense."

"Dancing?" Maring leaned in and shook his shoulders, wiggling like a loon in his seat to an imaginary beat. John nearly spat bread at him when she erupted into laughter. "Was it as good as this?"

John burst out in another peal of chuckles and shook her head back and forth, searching for the water bottle she had set down somewhere behind the paper stacks. "No! No one is as good as that!"

Martin continued to shake back and forth near convulsing in his seat.

John managed to swallow a gulp of water and get her breath back but there was no removing the smile that had crept up to her eyes. "You are ridiculous."

"And yet you still love me." Martin finally stopped twitching long enough to get a bite of food for himself.

He was always like this. Happy and carefree and comforting. In John's worst moments over the past few months, she had always been able to lean on him, whether it be her irritation at Sherlock or grief from a case or frustration at work. No matter what, he never failed to put a smile on her face. He was everything she always wanted.

"God help me, I do."

Martin smiled up at her and she could not resist planting a kiss on that mouth, full of food as it was. To which, naturally, brought about a seated rendition of the electric slide.

Another few days passed and the only cases available were apparently not worth Sherlock's precious time.

Nearly the entire stack of mail -bills and all- had been sacrificed into the kindling pile.

"Dull!"

All emails had been metaphorically shredded.

"Rubbish!"

The blog had a near-death experience, saved only by John wrestling Sherlock back into her armchair and throwing the closest blanket over her head.

"Ridiculous."

"You know," John sighed over her cup of tea. "It will take you five minutes to solve a three and Lestrade can move on to other important things." She gestured to the newspaper crumbled at Sherlock's feet. "'1,000 Eggs Disappear From Coop, Replaced by Crystals'. You wouldn't even have to leave your precious seat."

Sherlock scoffed and tossed the blanket to the floor, suffocating the ball of paper that mocked her very existence. "Lestrade is not that wholly incompetent."

John tilted her head to the side and smiled wide. "I'm putting that on our Christmas card. That is the nicest thing you have ever said about him."

"Don't blame me for my boredom, John." Sherlock flipped upside down in her chair and pulled at her short black locks, as if hoping she could grow Medusa's snakes for experimentation's sake. "Speaking of boring, how was your date with Miguel?"

"Martin." John bit her lip. She promised herself she would stop doing that. If she continued to egg Sherlock on, it would never stop. "We went-"

"For chinese food and a movie, yes I know. I don't know why I bother asking." Sherlock ruffled her hair and spun back up, dramatically laying across the arms of her chair and stretching. A strip of skin pulled across her exposed stomach as she rocked her legs back and forth.

John could not help smiling as she caught sight of a freshly shaved trail of dark hairs slipping down from Sherlock's belly button. For some reason, vanity was a trait that just suited Sherlock. John would be sure to bring it up the next time Sherlock tried to defend herself after being caught staring in the mirror or the back of a spoon -if only for the opportunity to see Sherlock's crumpled, confused face when she heard the term 'Happy Trail'.

Sherlock continued, "And then you went home to have boring vanilla sex because it has been three weeks since the last time you copulated and you felt like you owed it to him, even though you did not feel like having it."

John slammed her tea down and crossed her legs, shaking her head. "It wasn't-"

"What?" Sherlock asked lazily, voice cracking, still stretching out towards the fireplace. "Boring, vanilla, or owed?"

"Any of that," John spat out, grabbed her mug again and stared at the nearly empty bottom. She instantly got up and went to make a fresh batch.

"Really?" Sherlock drawled, spun around to a seated position, curled her legs beneath her, and squatted on the balls of her feet. Her pose was complete when both hands slapped together under her chin. "Then tell me, how did Monty-"

"Martin."

"-thrill you? Did he kiss you until he was out of breath? Did he grab you and throw you against the wall? Did he rip off your clothes like you were the most irresistible thing and he just had to have you now? Did he demand you drop to your knees and service him?"

John reached for the tea leaves and wondered if it were too early for chamomile or if she should try that new cinnamon chai.

Sherlock slunked towards her and collapsed into the kitchen chair, resting her elbow on the table and her cheek against her palm. "Or did he kiss you sloppily, get his beard hairs in your nose -which I know you hate- and ignore the way you waited for it to be over? Lucky you didn't need to wait long. It only lasted, three, maybe four minutes. Missionary style. Lights off. Uncomfortable but tolerable."

John chucked her mug on the countertop and glared at the tea leaves floating in the bottom. When had they last washed all their mugs properly instead of just rinsing them out? There were quite a few stains.

"You only get beard burn on your chin when you have sex with him." Sherlock relentlessly went on, dramatically flailing her hands about. "You've reached the point in your relationship where you only kiss hello, goodbye, and during sex. If this is because you feel it is the right thing to do or so you can keep your eyes closed during the act, I haven't yet determined. As far as time, you took only a short break in replying to my texts. Normally I would assume bathroom but the beard burn proves otherwise."

John decided it was best to just get a new mug and wash it out with soap herself.

"Missionary because that's the way he's always liked it and you think it makes it more comfortable for you when you are not interested. You are a doctor, you should know better."

John made quick work of cleaning the new cup with a rag and threw some water into her used one. There was no guarantee soaking a tea-stained mug would do much of anything, but it was worth a shot until she could get a better sponge.

"Also, your hair was teased on the back of your head only. You were not attempting to style your hair that day, therefore unanticipated fluffing of the hair. Lights off because why would you want them on? And-"

John slammed the kettle under the water. "Why are you suddenly so interested in my sex life?"

Almost all right, as usual. Also a bitch about it, as usual.

Sherlock's plastered on, mocking smile fell back into her natural evil. Even when John knew she was being poked, Sherlock could still crack her. Somehow, John thought she could blame Mycroft for it. Their verbal sibling equivalent of her and Harry's hair pulling had to be disastrous. Their poor mother.

Sherlock drummed her fingers against the tabletop and raised a single condescending eyebrow. "Because now I know, John."

"Know what?"

"What you want." She pushed away from the table and twirled into John's personal space, using her entire height to crowd John against the sink. "I observed you at the club, mon chérie."

John ignored her and the sudden thump of her heart. She slipped over to the stove and squinted at the tacky yellow goo clinging to the surface of their kettle. "I have no clue what you're talking about."

Sherlock quickly disappeared, strode to the couch, and flopped onto it, her cocky smirk never leaving her smug face. "Of course you don't."

The chai tea brewed as John contemplated sneaking upstairs to read the book she had been waiting to finish. It might be romantic dribble, but it had a surprisingly interesting plot. She turned for the stairs, disregarding Sherlock altogether, until that commanding voice rang her like a bloody mobile, "John, sit."

John rolled her eyes, walked back into the room, and leaned over to look at the phone in Sherlock's hand. Perhaps Lestrade had texted. "Case?"

Sherlock glanced her way and shook her head. John waited for her to finish typing while impatiently tapping her fingers against the top of her steaming mug. With a huff, she fell back into her seat and pulled out her phone. Martin would appreciate knowing if she were about to go galavanting around the alleyways.

"Come here," Sherlock commanded.

Never easy with her, was it? Boredom led to game playing. Which meant picking apart the dating life of John Watson and then making said John pick pens out of pockets five seconds later.

John left the tea, walked to Sherlock's side, and glanced at the phone as it faded to black. "What-"

"John, kneel!" Sherlock interrupted suddenly.

Knees collided with the hard floor with a loud smack. While ducking down, John threw an arm over Sherlock, calculated how long it would take to reach her gun from the floor, and started to scan the room for threats -when she caught Sherlock smirking.

"So, it was the audience that held you back," Sherlock murmured coquettishly. She rolled out a graceless arm and scraped a sharp finger under John's jaw. "You're only comfortable with me."

John pulled her head away and glared. Nope. Never easy. "You're testing me."

"Good deduction." Sherlock pushed onto one elbow and leaned towards her.

John did not mean it as a deduction, she meant it as a warning. Not that Sherlock would listen.

Calculating eyes deduced at lightning speed, up and down John's hunched body.

"Well stop it," John huffed and returned to her feet, shakily reached for her tea and swallowed a burning gulp. She squinted the pain away without looking at her arse of a flatmate. "I don't know what you're doing but I don't like it."

Sherlock paused for a moment, frozen absolutely, like some forgotten statue of a warrior on the hunt, and then she smiled -too easily for John to think it was genuine. "Alright. I'll drop it." In the same breath she said, "We haven't played Gin in a while."

John took her seat back and crossed her legs, leaning as far back as she could, refusing to rub at her bruised kneecaps, all while trying not to wring Sherlock's neck. There really should be some form of knightship or peace prize or something earned for living with Sherlock for more than a week. "That's because you count cards."

"I won't while drunk."

"Yes, you will."

"Not as well."

John sighed and looked at the skull, the deck of cards hiding inside of it. "You want to play Gin, Sherlock?"

"Why, yes, John. What a lovely idea. I'll grab the good whiskey."

"Honey?"

"Of course."

John pinched the bridge of her nose. "Not count cards my arse."

It was the sixth round and Sherlock had won every single hand.

It was becoming more of a possibility that there would be a sacrifice to the burning flames that day. Why keep the cards at all when there was a perfectly good fire burning right in the room?

"You're only saying that because you're drunk," Sherlock teased, lifted her glass and took a small sip, crossing her legs under sheet-made-cape-made-dress. She was always such a lady like that.

John took a gulp and slurred, "I am not-" she lurched in her seat, caught herself on the arm and pushed back up, giggling, "Okay."

"Let's switch games," Sherlock cheered.

"Go fish?" John asked and laughed hard enough to send her into a coughing fit. It was just so funny to picture Sherlock asking her to go fish!

"Truth or Dare," Sherlock said with all the conviction of someone who planned during their hours of sobriety.

John squinted. "Did you just say Truth or Dare?"

"I've never played. I assumed you have since you were invited to sleepovers as a child."

"Oh. Um." It may have been the drink, but poor Sherlock. Never having played Truth or Dare? John pouted at the reminder that Sherlock had the most boring childhood ever -no cartoons? ever?- and nodded. "Alright."

"Excellent," Sherlock beamed. John smiled back. "Truth or dare?"

"Mmmm, dare."

Sherlock smirked and pointed towards John's phone next to their discarded cards. "I dare you to call Michael-"

"Martin."

"-and break it off with him."

John gasped dramatically as Sherlock burst into a fit of giggles. "Sherlock!"

"Alright, you can text him."

"Sherlock!"

"Fine! Spoilsport." Sherlock sipped from her glass and smacked her lips. "I dare you to-" she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small trinket, "-put this on."

John reached for it. It was the gothic lace choker with the ruby heart that Sherlock had worn at the sex club, and then made her wear. She held it up and squinted at it. "Seriously? That's it."

Sherlock nodded.

"Alright," John said and put it on. "Truth or dare?"

"Truth."

"I knew you would." John shifted back into her chair and slipped onto the arm of it, cradling her head against the back. "Do you actually know my boyfriend's name and just refuse to say it?"

Sherlock rolled her eyes but otherwise did not move.

John gasped again at the not-denial-so-maybe and hurried to add, "What about Greg?"

"Who?"

John giggled. "Never mind. Your turn."

"Truth or dare?"

"Truth."

Sherlock shifted in her sheet, spreading her legs in the most unladylike of fashions so she could lean in closer. "What is your deepest, darkest sexual fantasy?"

John snorted up her drink and fell back into her seat coughing. "I thought you already looked at my porn- ah- thing."

"Yes, far more variety than I expected, but that doesn't answer my question."

John shifted again, nearly falling off the edge of her seat, but grasped Sherlock's knee to keep herself from going over. "Um. Kinda personal, Holmes."

Sherlock's tongue poked between her teeth before quickly snaking back inside with a click. "Is that not the point of the game?"

Sherlock did have a good point. Genius, that one.

John took another sip of her drink and closed her eyes, playing with one of the blonde locks that swept far past her shoulders. "I guess it's me, obviously, and this, um, androgynous, um, person. And-"

"Androgynous person?" Sherlock interrupted curiously.

"Yeah," John shrugged and giggled again. It was so strange to be saying it aloud when she rarely let herself acknowledge it with a hand between her thighs. Deepest and darkest was not exactly her go-to. "I've always had a thing for androgynous. They're so…" A passing car threw lights up and around the room, attracting John's very hyperactive attention. The golden streams twinkled over the mirror and spread hazy geometric patterns over Sherlock's curving cheeks. "Pretty."

One of Sherlock's eyebrows raised. "Yet, you're with beer-belly, prickly chin Mitchell."

"Martin!" John threw up her hands, a bit of whisky falling across her glass. She licked the streams from her fingers and nodded. "Don't know why androgynous. Maybe it's the lack of beard and the eyeliner. Guys look great in eyeliner."

"To the point, John?"

"Right. Um. So, it's me and that guy and he's got me captive, right?"

"Like he's a pirate and you're his prisoner?" Sherlock slipped closer still, pulling her chair with her. "You did say eyeliner."

John snorted and fell the rest of the way to the floor between Sherlock's spread thighs, shaking her head. "That's your fantasy, mate. If you have them. A part of me thinks you aren't-"

"Back to your fantasy, John," Sherlock looked down from above, all her attention drilling into John's blushing face. Her open legs seemed to trap John on the spot. One move the the left or right and John's cheek grazed smooth inner thigh. Not to mention the direct view of knickers peeking out from behind the sheet, peeling back from leg and exposing the smallest hint of parts previously private. The lace fabric revealed there were other parts of Sherlock shaved for vanity's sake too.

"Right." John swallowed and dropped her gaze to the floor. "Uh- Well. Well, he's got me captive somehow-" She raised a single finger. "-and not on a pirate ship. I get seasick, I'm afraid." Her finger danced in the air as she mapped out her mystery man. "And he's attractive and charming and I have to do what he says or I'll die, so he says."

Sherlock pouted, squinting in the firelight. "Stockholm syndrome? That's your fantasy?" She threw up her hands as if someone threw some horrible mundane pair of socks at her head. She bonelessly slumped back into her chair. "Fuck him or die?"

"You did say dark!" John threw up her glass and spilled again, this time wiping up the mess on the floor with one of her socks, peeling it off and tossing it near the fire.

Sherlock watched the very flammable sock fly and crawled across the floor to move it away from the flames, clutching her sheet under her neck. "You need new books."

"You need to pick truth or dare," John said triumphantly.

"Dare."

John started giggling before she could even get the thought out. "I dare- I dare you- to-" She burst into laughter and grabbed Sherlock's phone, opening the web browser. Sherlock must have deduced what she was trying to do because she sloppily reached for the device, toppling forward.

"No!" Sherlock yelped.

John held the phone away and quickly said, "I dare you to create a facebook page!"

Sherlock's face went slack in horror, shaking back and forth. "Don't make me do that, John. Please. I implore you."

John opened the registration page and held it out to Sherlock. "Too late. I dared you. You have to do it! And with a real profile this time too. Nothing you can use to phish people with for a case."

Shaking hands reached for the phone as Sherlock glared at the blue and white blocking. "Do you realize how many morons are on social media? How many will try and contact me?"

"Yes," John grinned, knowing Sherlock would either delete the account or make her answer all the stupidity in the morning. "But I dared you."

Sherlock growled and slammed the info into the phone, throwing it towards John's head when the login was completed. "You are a horrible woman, Joan Hamish Watson."

"You love it, Shelly Winifred Scarlet Holmes."

There was a twinkle in Sherlock's smirk as she chuckled, "Not even close."

It was not fair. John shared her middle name but in return she only got Sherlock's initials. At the moment, she could not remember the order but there were at least two Ss and a W. She was pretty sure and pretty sure in her state was a guarantee.

"Well, I'm drunk," John huffed. "Now, give me a truth."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth slipped upwards, her legs tucking under her as she moved closer. "Does Mark-"

"Martin."

"-satisfy you sexually?"

John glared at Sherlock. Was this sexual truth or dare? Because if it was, Sherlock was in for a rude awakening on her next dare.

"I choose dare," John said.

"I dare you to tell me if you are satisfied sexually."

"That's not how the game works, Sherlock."

Sherlock pouted, threw her back against the leg of her chair and crossed her arms, her hair falling across half her face, her sheet slipping down bare arms. "Fine. I already have my answer anyway." She tossed her head to the side and started up a pout. Always so dramatic. "I dare you to change your facebook so that your sexual preference reads you are interested in both men and women."

"How do you even know about that option?" John mumbled, grabbed for her phone, and contemplated if Martin would even see it. It was ridiculous to think it would bother him if he did, but it sounded like something Martin would comment on. Well, the man must have played truth or dare at some point in his life. "Why?"

"Why would Matty-"

"Martin."

"-care about the change, or why am I making you do this?"

"Why are you making me do this," John clarified.

"Person," Sherlock said simply, as if that made any sense.

John sighed and let it go, too drunk to care. "You are playing this wrong. Done. Not that anyone will see unless they look."

"What would you do if they did?"

"Huh?"

An inability to understand Sherlock was nothing abnormal, but John was not sure that was English. She shook her head and wondered if it were time for drinking some water. She pushed to her feet and stumbled into the kitchen, looking for a clean glass or pitcher.

"You are always so offended when we are mistaken for a couple, on the rare occasion it does happen." Sherlock pushed to her feet and barely stumbled at all when following her into the kitchen but her sheet did fall to the floor, leaving her in only her underthings. Matching, again. "You always clarify how you are very, very straight."

"Well I am," John said, tipping a large glass over, sniffing it, and turning to Sherlock. "Is this clean?"

Sherlock shook her head and moved to help her search. "Is it your name?"

Exposed hip bone brushed against forearm and John jumped back to lean against the sink. "That does get confusing for people but they shouldn't assume. I'm straight and you're not interested but people think you are. Then I get called the man or butch or whatever and then you get called a lip-something or another. You get enough as it is."

Sherlock reached high in the cabinet and pulled down two dusty but unmarked and not burned pieces of glass and handed them to John to rinse. "I admire your loyalty, John. Above all else. But I promise you, I can handle any assumptions myself. I don't care what people think."

"Well I do. You shouldn't have to be with anyone," John ground out, searching for the dish soap. Did she not just have it two hours ago?

Sherlock handed it to her and sank against the counter. Her physique was looking less sallow and more lean every day. Stretched out like that with alabaster skin taut over flexing muscles, she almost looked healthy. Good.

"I am aware you are not homophobic. I simply ask because I'm curious. Does your-" she sneered, "-boyfriend, have anything to do with it?"

John snorted. "Please. If you and I ever-" she flapped a hand around, "-he would get off on it."

"And be immensely jealous."

"He's already jealous." John bit her tongue and froze, hot water running over her hands. She had not meant to say that.

Martin had never admitted it out loud but it was obvious. Most of John's exes had been jealous of Sherlock, more than one asking if they were to be expecting a threeway anytime soon. Their relationship was mistaken more times than Sherlock knew about. Martin was the one that stuck around, even beyond the threeway jokes.

Sherlock's grin was victorious as she leaned over and turned the water to cold, tipping the cups into the stream and helping John finish up. "Ever the soldier. Protecting our relationship and your Max's-"

"Martin."

"-precious ego."

"He doesn't have a big ego," John huffed around a large sip of water.

"He doesn't have a big anything," Sherlock muttered behind her glass.

John spit out her water into the sink, snorted, and shook her head. Sherlock's hand was on her back soon, pulling the hair from her face. "I'm not throwing up," John reassured her through giggles.

"Well," Sherlock laughed. "There's one truth I don't need to ask."

John let the feeling of mirth overwhelm her. It was well beyond a reasonable hour for sleep for a woman her age and she was giggling like a schoolgirl over a boy's cock with her half naked best friend and the taste of whiskey on her tongue. She never thought she could have this warmth fill her again, not since joining the army. Never did she see herself this happy and safe and carefree. It was perfect.

"Whose turn is it?" John moved back to the living room and sunk in front of her chair, too dizzy to think about climbing back into it.

"Your turn to ask me." Sherlock sat beside her, returning to leaning against her own chair. "Truth."

Sherlock must have sensed John was going to dare her to do something drastic.

John thought a moment and carefully considered something that plagued her. A question so many people had asked her about her flatmate that she did not honestly know the answer to. Sober John would never dare. Drunk John opened her mouth and asked, "Are you really not interested? In anyone? I mean…" She tapped the side of her glass as the rational side of her brain warned her to shut up. "Are you- Are you asexual or is it medical or something? Because- because that's fine. I just… just..."

Sherlock's blank face stared into the fire. "That's too many questions."

"Well, pick one."

"No."

"Wait, what do you mea-"

"Truth or dare?"

John sighed. Sherlock could be so difficult. Either way, she did not want to talk about it. Message received.

"Truth." John sipped more water and ignored the too warm feel of it.

"Have you ever had sex with a woman?"

John sputtered and pushed away from the heat of the flames on her face. "What would-"

"You have!" Sherlock jumped up, knocking some of her water over as she landed on her hands and knees, studying John's face.

John held up a hand. "It was a threesome!"

"No it wasn't!" Sherlock laughed, pinning her against the chair with a finger impaling her shoulder. "There were four of you!"

John groaned, threw down her cup, and slammed her hands over her face.

"Three Continents Watson!" Sherlock gasped. "That's where it comes from. They were all from different continents!"

John shook her head back and forth, still astounded at Sherlock's ability to uncover the truth, even when properly pissed. "Yes! Alright, yes!"

Sherlock cheered triumphantly and put her water down as she reached for the whiskey again. "This calls for a celebration!"

"No! No more!" John grabbed the bottle from her, laughing. "I don't even know if you could count it as sex anyway. With her it was mostly making out. I did… stuff, with the other guys."

"Oh, Watson," Sherlock shook her head and smirked. "You are a lovely little whore, aren't you?"

John's heart pounded and her eyes dropped to the floor. She felt her breath coming in pants as she tried to regain her equilibrium. The heat of the fire was messing with her head again.

"Oh," Sherlock gasped lightly, and moved until she was sitting directly in front of John, bare legs rubbing against blue jeans. A single finger traced down John's cheek and under her jaw, all the way to the choker necklace hanging above her collarbone. Sherlock tugged at the lace and whispered, "Look at me."

John lifted her head slowly, still trying to get her panting under control.

"Tell me," Sherlock commanded. "Does Mario not want to even try being dominant in the bedroom?"

John's mouth was sticky and dry from the alcohol. She reached for her water glass but had a hard time locating it. She could not look away from Sherlock's grey eyes as they pulled the answer out of her.

Martin would not be widely described as the adventurous type. He liked what he liked and change was not really an easy option. When their sexual relationship had started to dwindle, Martin reassured her he was alright with it. Frankly, John was too. Except, having sex twice a month was not exactly normal, for her especially. She had a healthy sex drive before, but age could slow something like that down. Martin was not a teenager anymore and she was no longer at her peak, she supposed.

Martin was the best man she could ever hope for, loving and kind, but physically… He was an attractive man but he never seemed to heat her up, as it were. She had been taking care of business herself more so recently, hence why Sherlock found her 'variety' of porn history.

John had always had kinks, she knew this. She did tend to click on BDSM related videos more often than she would like to admit, but she clicked on all kinds of videos. From gay men, to women, to orgys, to straight. But just as clicking on lesbian or solo female videos did not make her gay in any way, clicking on D/s videos did not make her want to become someone's 'little slave'.

So, John had asked Martin to spice things up a bit, knowing what his reaction would likely be. He was unfortunately predictable and could not keep a straight face when simply calling her a slag. The entire night was a disaster that lead to no sex and a very uncomfortable apology with both slowly putting their clothes back on, each full of disappointment.

They dropped the idea altogether, returning to the regular -as Sherlock loved to put it- vanilla sex that they were having. If it only happened twice a month, that was fine. In the long run, sex was the dessert, not the main dish. If everything else was so fantastic, why give it up for something she could do with her own hands and a few toys?

Martin and she had even joked about having an open relationship one day -his point being that they were already in one with John's attention shared by Sherlock. However, as willing as he was to hypothetically sleep with other women, he was less willing to picture John doing the same thing with men. The subject was dropped yet again and had not been brought up for months.

Sherlock probably knew most of this, having deduced it from texts that John pretended she did not read or from John's porn sites alone. When John looked at Sherlock, her finger still locked in the choker, she seemed to understand completely. Whether that was the booze, Sherlock's phenomenal acting, or actual truth, was hard to tell.

John shook her head.

"I have a proposition," Sherlock muttered.

John looked up, about to ask what the hell that meant, when Sherlock's phone screeched.

The moment promptly fell to pieces.

Sherlock bumped and stumbled to pick it up. "What?!" She flopped her back on the ground, her free hand covering her eyes, her legs spreading out everywhere, as if she were as liquid as the whiskey she consumed. "Lestrade, what do you want?... Where?... Can't. Drunk…. Different addiction. I'm not tempted to shoot up because of a few drinks!…. She's drunk too…No. Not good enough. Call me when you have something better." Sherlock hung up and tossed the phone under the chair.

"Was that a case?" John asked.

"Murder. Attic. Probable robbery. Not even a three." Sherlock's eyes closed, her hair cushioning her head as it fell to the side.

Sherlock's phone pinged again and John grumbled, climbing over Sherlock's legs to reach it.

I can't hold the body for you Sherlock. -L

John thought about texting back, knowing Sherlock would probably be rude if she responded herself, but Lestrade texted immediately.

Call me when you're sober. I'll see what I can do. -L

John turned the screen off and shoved it near Sherlock's head, falling onto her friend's exposed stomach in the process. Her head would hurt like hell, but there was no way she was moving to bed now. The fire was already dying out. Sherlock's belly was tiny but soft and squishy. The shaved happy trail felt silky under her fingertips.

Everything would be fine in the morning.