All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them.
- Galileo Galilei
Returning to the windmill felt less traumatic than John had been expecting. Usually people only returned to the scene of their abduction to seek some level of closure, to tuck up their trauma and put it to bed, not to go on – what appeared to be – a rather aggressive date with a self-confessed sociopath. But then again, John couldn't deny that Sherlock had helped him heal faster and more efficiently than any therapist had. Maybe that's why, as he sat in the same room he'd been imprisoned in not forty-eight hours before, he felt nothing but excitement coursing through his veins.
"Sherlock stop lighting candles! It's starting to look like we're sitting on top of a birthday cake." He said as he watched Sherlock light another one before placing it among the others on the wooden floor. He had thought, when Sherlock first unzipped the rucksack and pulled out a massive bag of tea lights, that he was only going to light a few to banish away the darkness and icy air from the room, but now it seemed that he was hell bent on lighting them all, effectively turning the windmill into a blazing ball of fire.
"If you're worried about the accumulation of carbon monoxide you needn't fear," Sherlock said as he lit another candle, "The room is well ventilated."
"Honestly Sherlock you need to stop, it looks like we're about to take part in a satanic ritual."
"Isn't this what people do on dates?" Sherlock asked as he struck another match, "Look at each other through the haze of candle light."
"Yes, but usually they do it by the aid of one or two candles, not fifty."
"Just a few more." Sherlock said, touching the flame to another unlit wick.
John decided not to argue and instead contented himself with watching Sherlock flit from place to place, lighting candles as he went. He also couldn't deny that the room did look rather pretty bathed in golden light and Sherlock appeared strikingly attractive, wandering around like the embodiment of a shadow. It was strange for them to be alone like this, so completely isolated and removed from the rest of the world by miles of woodland and marshy field, with no dead body between them or the omnipresent eye of Mycroft Holmes casting judgment on their every move. The idea that he had, in this moment, Sherlock's undivided attention was simultaneously both nerve wracking and exhilaratingly hedonistic.
"So what game are we going to play?" John asked as he watched Sherlock – who had finally dispensed with lighting candles – rummage around in the rucksack. Instead of answering him, Sherlock simply pulled out a bottle of vodka and two small shot glasses, placing them in front of John like some sort of sacrificial offering.
John stared at the items for a few seconds, watching the flickering candle light reflected in the glass, "You want... to play a drinking game?" He asked incredulously. Although Sherlock had a penchant for shooting up any opiate that came to hand, he'd never shown the slightest interest in alcohol.
"I didn't even know that you drank." John said as he picked up the bottle and examined the label. It wasn't the cheap sort of vodka that you brought at the corner shop and knocked back with your nose pinched just to get drunk quickly. And even though he didn't know much about strong spirits, John knew that this bottle had to have set Sherlock back at least forty quid.
"Why are we going to play a drinking game?" He asked as he finally looked up from the label and saw Sherlock staring at him, his palms pressed together beneath his chin. Although his expression was impassive, his eyes belied a level of sad resignation.
"Alcohol tends to render people uninhibited and thus more likely to tell the truth. I need you to be frank with me John, otherwise this experiment won't work."
"Experiment? I thought this was supposed to be a date."
Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, "I've combined the two."
"Of course you have." John said as he rested his back against the wall, feeling more affection for Sherlock than he probably should in this moment, "Exactly what are you testing?"
"I can't tell you."
"Why?"
"Because the very act of observation changes that which is being observed."
"But I already know that I'm being observed."
"You don't know what I'm observing though."
John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face a few times before he said, "Fine, let's just get on with it."
Sherlock smiled slightly – obviously proud of the ease at which he had irritated John into a state of submission. He then proceeded to uncap the bottle and fill the two shot glasses with about an inch of the clear liquid, "Have you ever played the drinking game "I've Never"?" He asked.
"Err... once, I think. You'll have to remind me."
Sherlock scooted forward and John carefully moved his glass out of the way before he could spill it all over the floor, "The rules of the game and incredibly straightforward – made simple so that the drunk and inebriated would be able to continue playing it until its bitter end. One person says "I've Never..." and then they say something that they've never done. If the other person has also never done the aforementioned thing then they don't drink, if they have then they consume the shot. The game continues, each person taking their turn, until they either run out of alcohol or are knocked unconscious by the copious amount of ethanol coursing their veins. Do you understand?"
"Yes." John said hesitantly, simultaneously unsure and slightly unsettled as to why Sherlock was intent on playing this game, or why he had insisted on them playing here of all places.
"Good, now I'll begin with something light to start us off." Sherlock said as he handed one of the glasses to John – who dutifully took it. "I've never been in a child's playground."
John blinked, "You've never... what like the slide and swings part of a park?"
"Yes." He said in that slow, patronising way of his.
"How is that possible? Didn't you and Mycroft go when you were little?"
"No, our mother hated them. She was always terrified that we would fall off a climbing frame and break our necks or concuss ourselves on the side of a slide and die of a brain bleed. She allowed us to play on the beach though whenever we took a trip to the seaside – so long as we wore a life vest in the water and reapplied suntan lotion every half an hour to prevent skin cancer."
John smiled at the thought of Sherlock and Mycroft as children, tottering around an overcast British beach wearing massive, neon orange life vests and enough suntan lotion to make them look like emaciated snowmen.
"You two never had a chance did you?"
"A chance to do what?"
"Be normal." John said as he pressed the shot glass to his lips and sucked back the freezing liquid in one gulp. It burnt the back of his throat as he swallowed and instantly started to warm him belly. "Christ," John winced, "This stuff is strong."
"I am aware." Sherlock said as he refilled the empty glass. The action caused the cuffs of his coat to slide upwards and John was momentarily transfixed by the sight of Sherlock's exposed wrists. His skin looked almost translucent in the candle light and John marvelled at just how easy it would be to bruise his delicate flesh. He'd never thought of Sherlock as fragile before – seeing him more as some sort of invincible being rather than a mere mortal - but in that moment, staring at the thin layer of skin that covered the intricate web on blue veins on his wrist, John was unnerved to realise just how breakable he was.
"It's your turn."
"What?" John asked, his gaze snapping up from Sherlock's wrists with a speed that almost gave him whiplash.
"It's your turn to state something that you've never done."
"Oh, right, um..." John scanned his brain briefly before he said "I've never taken dancing lessons."
Sherlock's right eye twitched slightly. He stared at John impassively for a moment before he picked up his glass and consumed the shot.
"You've taken dancing lessons?"
"You don't have to sound quite so gleeful; lots of boys are forced to take dance classes by their mothers."
"What sort of dance was it?" John asked, leaning back against the wall, trying – and failing – to hide his shit eating grin.
"The point of the game is to make statements, not ask questions."
"Indulge me."
Sherlock's jaw was set tight and John perceived, even in this light, that the tips of his ears were starting to turn red, "I took ballet until I was fourteen. My mother forced me to, she was concerned that I wasn't getting enough exercise."
"Were you any good?"
"Not particularly, I had neither the inclination nor the desire to traipse across a stage on tiptoe to the sound of Tchaikosky's Nutcracker Suite. I used to hide in one of the window seats behind the curtain with Mycroft_"
"Mycroft took ballet too?"
"Of course he did, mothers usually subject all their children to the same brand of torture. He looked particularly hideous in his leotard – was teased relentlessly by the other children for having such a large pot belly at the age of eight."
John stared at Sherlock, trying to keep his face straight when he asked, "Are there any pictures of the two of you in these leotards?"
Sherlock shot him a venomous look, "A few," he said tightly, "I tried to burn them but our mother pitched a fit. We came to an agreement that if she promised to keep all photos exiled to the attic, I wouldn't destroy them_ stop looking at me like that!"
"Like what?"
"Like I'm some sort of kitten that's fallen asleep in a teacup."
John smiled, "It is a rather adorable image_"
"It's not adorable," Sherlock said as he pulled the lapels of his coat tighter around him – with slightly more drama than was needed, "It was an embarrassing period in my life that I had to suffer through out of love for my mother and an illogical filial desire to keep her happy. Now, can we please get back to the game?"
"Oh by all means," John said, "I'm starting to enjoy myself immensely. It's your turn."
Almost an hour later the bottle was three quarters empty and John was feeling boneless. Most of the candles had burnt out and the room was looking a lot cosier with only a few flames still flickering. John didn't know exactly how it had happened but he was shoeless and his legs were slung over Sherlock's thighs.
Neither of them was drunk, not yet, but John's brain was buzzing pleasantly and he would have been happy to stop drinking if Sherlock hadn't insisted that they keep playing.
"I've never... really minded having Mycroft as a brother." Sherlock said slowly as he toyed with his empty shot glass, "Sometimes I wish that someone would brutally murder him in a fit of justifiable irritation, but he's not... bad you know, I wouldn't... not have him as a brother if I had a choice. I quite enjoy having him alive rather than dead."
"I'm sure Mycroft would weep with joy to hear you say that."
"Mycroft can't weep," Sherlock said as he lay down flat on the floor and rested his hands behind his head, "he has no tear ducts."
John snorted and closed his eyes, contented to sit still, feeling the warmth of Sherlock's belly beneath his foot and the sound of his soft breathing,
"We should do this more often," John said, "take a break from all the serial killer chasing and dead bodies and just drink ourselves drunk in 221B. Mrs Hudson could join in! And Mycroft! Has Mycroft ever been drunk?"
Sherlock made a deep, gravelly humming sound, "Once – that I've seen – after he graduated with a first from Oxford. He came stumbling home at around midnight and vomited all over the stairs. Our mother was not best pleased."
"I can imagine." John mumbled as he started to doze. The warmth and the relative darkness were acting as a siren call and he was finding almost impossible to remain awake...
"John wake up! It's your turn."
"What? Oh God... I don't know..." John moaned as he gently prodded Sherlock in the stomach with the tips of his toes, "I've run out of things that I've never done – which is a good thing I suppose... shows I've lived a fulfilling life."
"There has to be something else," Sherlock said as he struggled to sit up, "Think."
"I'm trying." John muttered as he buried his head in his hands and tried to scrub himself sober. His brain didn't want to think, it was too busy processing all the alcohol in his system. He was too sleepy to keep playing this game and he was about to tell Sherlock that he gave up when suddenly a thought came to him.
He looked up from his hands and stared at Sherlock, slightly dumbstruck that he hadn't thought to ask before, not just during this game, but earlier when they were having their argument in the hotel. It seemed so obvious now and the thought of it effectively brought him back from the brink of sleep and sent his heart beating a little faster.
"Have you thought of one?" Sherlock asked as he refilled his glass, his accuracy was slightly off, which caused him to spill a little on the floor.
"Um... yeah." John said, now feeling slightly apprehensive about bringing the subject up. Surely there must be a reason why Sherlock had neglected to talk about it – especially when he was so frank about everything else.
"Well go on then."
John swallowed and waited until Sherlock was looking at him before he said, "I've never had sex with a man."
Although the room had been quiet before it seemed to fall into a deafening silence now. The easy smile that had been playing on Sherlock's lips instantly vanished and his face grew tight and impassive. His expression was unreadable but, even by the dim light; he saw Sherlock's face grow pale. The change in his demeanour was almost frightening and the longer John watched him sit there in silence, the more unnerved he became.
Sobriety and awareness was starting to creep back into his features with each passing second, almost as if the shock of what John had said was sobering him up. An immeasurable amount of time passed in which Sherlock neither moved nor spoke.
Just when John was about to ask if he was alright, he finally showed signs of life. With slow, controlled movements, almost like a clockwork toy, he plucked up the full glass of liquor from the floor and brought it to his lips. Even though John couldn't be sure, he thought that he saw Sherlock's hand tremble before he opened his mouth and sucked down the shot.
He was transfixed, feeling almost like he was in a dreamlike state, as Sherlock placed the glass back on the floor, looked up at him and said, almost defiantly,
"Yet another thing we don't have in common."