The quiet hit John like a wave as he managed to finagle the groceries into one hand so that he could close the door. The sounds of the street weren't gone, but rather blessedly muted and nothing came from the flat itself. The latter was both relieving and terrifying.
"It would be nice if someone else lived here who could help me with the shopping!" he shouted up the stairs without actually expecting an answer.
If Sherlock ever did help, he would be forced to assume it was some elaborate ploy to poison him. Or maybe convince John to poison him. He tended to be an equal opportunity poisoner when he was playing mad scientist.
Grunting as he reached the top of the steps - what did Sherlock need two thousand packets of Splenda for again? - John almost dropped his bags at the realization Sherlock wasn't alone. Not that seeing Mycroft was that startling by itself. He'd run into the man a few times while Sherlock had remained in hospital. He assumed Sherlock had called his brother sometime after their conversation and given him the "all clear" to return.
Mycroft had continued to visit Sherlock until they'd had a fight (about goldfish, of all things) and Sherlock had torn apart his brother's life with vicious words while Mycroft just looked on with all the exasperation of an older sibling that was way past "done with your shit."
No, the startling part was that this was the first time that the thought they might have been fucking had accompanied the sight of Sherlock's brother. The idea still made him a little queasy, though John had promised he'd try to see it from Sherlock's point of view. Which, as far as he could tell, was just a little bit stranger than Mrs. Marchner's, who lived up the street and thought all strange occurrences were caused by the sentient machines slowly taking revenge on unsuspecting humans.
"Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, glancing over. Only the slightest undertone to his voice indicated his unease. John was rather proud of his ability to read even that on a Holmes.
"Mycroft," John ground out. He may have accepted that Mycroft hadn't out and out forced Sherlock, but that didn't mean he didn't still think it was his fault to some degree. The man supposedly helped run the world, Sherlock would have to go much further than "relief" to convince him that Mycroft couldn't have resisted.
"Oh please," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "Do feel free to spend even a moment observing your surroundings. We haven't been fondling each other-"
"Sherlock!" Mycroft hissed. At least John wasn't the only one that didn't want to talk about anybody fondling anybody else.
"Obviously," Sherlock said, ignoring his brother. "Nor have we ever, before you ask. Mycroft refuses to do anything here." Sherlock sent Mycroft a dirty look.
"Unlike your flatmate, I know what you've done to the furniture. Forgive me for attempting to remain uncontaminated."
John eyed his chair.
"Besides, I assume that's not something John wants to see upon returning home. With the shopping," Mycroft continued.
John blinked down at the bags, just now remembering them. Mycroft sounded quite serious, so he figured he could leave them alone for a few minutes and not come back to any unpleasant surprises.
"I'll have some tea," Sherlock called out to him.
John paused in his task of putting the groceries away to scowl at the cupboards. Once done, he started pulling out the necessary supplies for tea only to have Sherlock add, "Mycroft would like a cup as well." John let out a slow breath through his nostrils.
Setting a cup in front of Sherlock, he dared Mycroft to say anything about his own lack of tea. Mycroft wisely chose not to comment.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And people say I'm childish."
"You are childish," Mycroft answered, quick as lightning. So, they weren't quite over their little spat. Good.
John glanced between them as frigid silence descended, wondering if he should give them some alone time. Not that he wanted to give them some alone time, but he told himself he had to accept that Sherlock was not a child. If he swore that it was what he wanted, he couldn't force his own views onto him. All he could do was glower at Mycroft and silently threaten him with tortures unimaginable if he ever found proof of wrongdoing.
"You hardly need to leave. We're not about to start snogging in the living room," Sherlock answered his unspoken question, rolling his eyes once more before picking up his violin, "In fact, Mycroft was almost out the door."
"Sherlock, I wish you would reconsider. This case-"
Sherlock started sawing away on his instrument, and the scene was so normal, it was surreal. John would have no idea that these two were anything more than annoyed younger and older brother. How in the world could they stand each other long enough to sleep together? Supposedly they did care about one another, but the idea of them doing anything even remotely brotherly, let alone romantic, was ridiculous.
Unable to stop himself, he asked, "Do you?" Because despite really not wanting to know, his curiosity wouldn't let him stay ignorant.
Sherlock's screeching stopped and they both turned to look at him.
"Snog?" John elaborated.
This time it was Mycroft's turn to look away in exasperation. "Must we talk about this? You have made it abundantly clear you still believe me to be some sort of monster that lurks in the dark. I hardly think talking about the finer details of our relationship will help matters."
"I think it might," John challenged, leaning forward, his tea forgotten. "You're in love, aren't you? The Holmes version of love, anyway. Why don't you tell me about it?"
"Contrary to what you might believe, I don't have to prove anything to you, Dr. Watson."
"Prove it to Sherlock then. Surely you can find one nice thing to say about a man you've been with for over twelve years."
John watched as the Holmes brothers glanced at each other. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"Very well. If you must know, I find that Sherlock has a wonderfully talented mouth. I particularly enjoy the fellatio."
John's jaw dropped and he could only stare mutely as Mycroft rose, the conversation apparently over. Giving him a challenging glare, Mycroft bent down to kiss Sherlock soundly on the lips before striding out of the room.
Turning his dumbfounded look to Sherlock, he was greeted with the sight of his flatmate unsuccessfully trying to hide an amused smile behind his violin.
"I should have hit him harder," John growled.
"Yes. If this is how he reacts to a bit of heated conversation, I can't wait for what a physical confrontation might bring about. He hasn't kissed me in this flat the entire time we've lived here. Far too paranoid of cameras not placed here by himself."
The worst part about Sherlock's response, John decided, was that it wasn't even sarcasm. He looked about as giddy as he had last Valentine's Day when he'd gotten a call about a serial killer sticking love notes in human organs.
John scowled down into his tea, certain this was all somehow its fault.