Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.
They were on their way to exhausting the local sights, which could become a problem. The town was wonderful, really, but how many churches and museums and random notable places could you visit to avoid talking about the fake/real (damn confusing life) relationship you were supposed to be working on? Were actually working on? This was a pretence, wasn't it? They weren't married, for one. For another, they were good friends already. They didn't need anyone to teach them anything.
Okay, discovering that Sherlock was not actually asexual had been a surprise. Gosh, John almost thought a 'welcome' surprise, but there was nothing to welcome there. His flatmate had been clear since the start that, whomever he might be interested in, he did not see John as a potential partner. They were only acting together because…honestly, who else would he ask? Sally Donovan? Not even God would manage to reconcile them, no matter how much the consulting detective pretended to behave. Molly? That would be too cruel to the poor girl. If John was confused, she'd be heartbroken and need actual counselling by the end. Greg? Unlike the doctor, he didn't have the luxury of an understanding boss in the event that he dropped everything to follow the detective, and Bristol was outside his jurisdiction.
So John it was. And the doctor was stuck walking the thin line between pretending and letting way too much slip. Which would have destroyed their relationship. And John would be broken in turn, because if there was one thing life had taught him, it was that he needed Sherlock. Sure, he might not technically be necessary to his survival, but what was the point of simply surviving? He'd already done that too long for his tastes. He had his miracle, and damn if he allowed it to go to waste!
Of course, this meant that as soon as they were back at their room (discussing therapy in public wasn't something either would do, even as a pretence), the blogger asked, "For our letters…anything in particular you want me to write?" He sat down at one of the two small desks and considered how to write his homework. Of course, he had his phone, but part of him insisted it should be done on paper…now, had he remembered to bring a notebook - the analogic version of one?
"I think you're missing the point of this exercise," the sleuth replied, choking off a laugh, "it's about what you kept quiet that you suspect I might have failed to deduce. Maybe I have not, I'll give you that – you're delightfully transparent in some ways. But not in all ways, and frankly, if I already knew the content of your letter, tomorrow's session would be even duller than it normally is."
"Yeah, but, I mean, our roles…If you don't have anything you think I should explicitly mention, do you have anything I need to keep quiet about?" the doctor insisted.
To be honest, this was the exercise that scared him most. After all, the others had a definite reward – no matter how awkward they were, he gained either interesting knowledge or cuddles. But now? He was afraid that, if he started confessing, things that should not be admitted would come out. Of course, he could edit the letter to his heart's content, but he wasn't as naïve as to think that Sherlock couldn't – or wouldn't – trace every version of it out of sheer boredom. This whole pretending to be married thing was making the mask he'd carefully worn since that first dinner at Angelo's slip. Dangerously. And not the fun kind of danger. He'd seen his partner's act too many times to trust what would be in the detective's letter. Not a fair exchange.
"Well, maybe don't mention I'm a consulting detective," the sleuth huffed. "Seriously, John, you shouldn't need me holding your hand through this task. You always tease me about being the one of us whose writing people actually want to read. Or are you admitting that your blog is awful?"
"Well, you know, there's a difference between fiction and nonfiction writing. I'm pretty decent at the second, while your style manages to be drier than sand. But I'm not sure I can come up with believable fictions to spill, while you are great at the whole improv, or better said fibbing, thing. I have no problems admitting your superiority where it's due," John remarked, shrugging.
"Then don't lie. The best fabrications have at least a kernel of truth in them anyway…I promise I won't exploit whatever you write outside of this case, if that's what has you so worried," Sherlock replied, laying down on the bed fully dressed. That at least got him a quick glare – the good doctor's instincts protesting about it, especially since they weren't completely exhausted and crashing. Honestly, there had been an awful amount of sleeping going on during this case – not that Sherlock was going to complain about it. Not with the amazing perks he'd discovered.
That, at least, seemed to inspire his partner, and the man started typing furiously on his phone. Should be and best medium be damned. He had a few choice words that were bubbling over and he'd write them. At least this gave him the chance to edit before tomorrow's session.
Of course, that was the moment the git picked to get up and go shower. Whistling, if you can believe it. Not that John really minded much being manipulated out of writer's block (more like writer's panic), but it was the principle of the thing. Especially when that added a huge number of germs to the place they were supposed to sleep in. Sure, germs they were already in contact with, but there was a reason people didn't usually sleep in their daily clothes!
At least, the annoyance kept him focused through his friend's shower, instead of falling prey to any awkwardness. John barely glanced at the other when he came back in, and the sleuth was hard to ignore in the best situations, much less slightly damp, stray droplets trailing on still flushed skin. But the blogger wasn't going to stare today, not even out of the corner of his eyes. The last thing he needed was a smug detective who noticed it and misinterpreted it. Or, worse, interpreted it correctly.
So instead he concentrated on his homework, and from the noise, Sherlock took his own phone from the side table and was preparing his letter, too. John was all too eager for a sneak peek. It would give him an advantage tomorrow, knowing what awaited him. If only his annoying partner wasn't apparently so fixated on following the therapist's instructions properly. Did they really need to comply exactly to eventually be deemed sane? Anyone stating that would be either dumb or lying through their teeth anyway, so might as well push the lie as far as possible, right?
His train of thought was interrupted by the detective saying, "I was thinking we might switch tonight, John. Not sides of the bed, of course, but positions. You being the hugger, I mean. For science."
The doctor couldn't help himself. He guffawed. "For science?" he echoed among peals of laughter.
"My knowledge is awfully lacking as you know. I cannot pretend very well when I have no data on significant segments of human behaviour. So, whenever you're finished with your composition – and honestly, I've never seen someone type so slowly even with autocomplete on – I'd appreciate if you could join me in bed," the sleuth replied.
It was the first time John had been patronizingly invited to bed. Still, behind the science excuse, this was his maddening flatmate asking for cuddles, and the blogger had promised him not to deny them. His letter found a conclusion in three minutes. An equally rapid shower, and he was slipping under the covers. No, he wasn't eager. He wanted to be helpful.
Now, if only they could find a compromise position that would not end with John humping the love of his life…it didn't help that Sherlock seemed to scoot towards him and plaster himself fully against the other every time John took an inch back. Okay. He might have to accept his fate. He certainly didn't want the detective to question aloud why he wasn't complying with their therapist's directions. He would just not sleep so he would not lose control. He was used enough to missing sleep while on a case.
Besides, he had a mission. As soon as the sleuth dropped asleep, he would just…stretch…his hand out and get the other's phone. He would not fall asleep like the other day. He would not.
Truly, he didn't, but he hadn't considered the tall git's reach. Backing against him, Sherlock ended up well in the middle of the bed (if not slightly on his blogger's half). While the long arms that went with the long legs he thought way too much about still reached the side table, there was no way for John, from his position, to get around the other's body and stretch enough to grasp the phone. Not unless he pulled a muscle (and even then it was questionable) or climbed over his bedmate, and that was sure to wake anyone up.
He still tried, out of sheer stubbornness, and the only thing he achieved was that Sherlock – apparently in his sleep – snatched his arm and held onto it like a vice. Well, such reflexes explained how the man survived on cases and doing drugs before John came along to shoot whomever needed shooting.
That ruined the simple plan to 'quietly get up and pretend to go to the toilet but snatch the phone on the way', too. He tried the impossible first, afraid that the detective would awaken in case he jostled the bed by rousing. Now, it was mathematically certain that if he employed enough strength to free himself, he'd have a very alert Sherlock to deal with – and possibly in self-defence mode, being so rudely roused.
He'd better give up on his plans, and just stay still (but vigilant!) so he could appreciate the warm, firm body against him, and the soft breathing he heard, without the situation turning awkward. Hadn't he wanted to be aware longer the other night? Now there was his opportunity.
…Someone should take a photo of John, and tag it 'last famous words'. He could even become a meme, who knew.