He stumbles across the folder, wedged between in the crevice between the toilet tank and the wall, while looking for cigarettes. Well…that was his story, anyway. He'd never deviate from it, not in a million years. Never mind that looking for cigarettes behind the toilet tank was just plain idiotic. That wasn't the point. The point was he found something he wasn't expecting. It surprised him.
Very little surprises him.
He takes the folder to the living room and flops onto the sofa in a graceless heap. Whatever John had hoped to hide from him was now going to be thoroughly analyzed. He flips it open carelessly and stops short. Sitting up straight he slowly thumbs through the pages, article after article, web blog after web blog, each and every one making assumptions and drawing conclusions about their private lives and what exactly goes one behind the closed doors inside 221B.
He'd never bothered reading the…drivel that was written about them. He was secure in his sexuality. John was stubbornly clinging to the label he'd been slapped with his entire life. Nothing would change. Why would it?
But this. This bordered on obsessive. And why? Why keep something that so clearly made him upset?
Sherlock needed answers and he needed them now.
Throwing the file to the floor he bounds up the stairs to John's room. Being a military man John would keep a journal or ledger of some kind. Something more private than his blog, which he knew Sherlock could hack into. He would have hidden it, of course. He was so picky about his privacy, constantly nagging Sherlock not to barge in on him during his shower or enter his room uninvited.
He checks the usual places. Under the mattress, behind the headboard, and inside his underwear drawer. Nothing. He smiles to himself. John was getting clever!
He looks around the room, eyes gleaming with the thrill of the hunt, until he sees it. An air duct. He'd have to stand on the bed to reach it, but the missing screws in its frame were a dead giveaway.
He pulls the grate off the wall and tosses it across the room. The journal is plain and leather bound, worn around the edges with use. He must have had it for a while now. He settles himself on John's bed, wriggling against the pillows until he's comfortable, and flips to the middle. Most of it is dull, dry renditions of his blog, but occasionally a new word or phrase will jump out at him.
He looked so pleased with himself, standing there deducing everything about a woman he's never met, and if there was ever a time I wanted to kiss him it was then.
He flips a few more pages. He reads John's thoughts on his smoking (dull, predictable) and his clothes, particularly his "Purple-Shirt-of-Sex" (not so dull), and how he thinks Sherlock's overly pronounced cupid's bow is utterly kissable, and how he want's nothing better than to junk-punch Anderson every time he says something nasty about Sherlock's deductive skills.
But the most interesting parts are where he writes about his dreams. Lovely, passionate entries that put fire in his belly and make his mouth hot and dry. Sherlock decides that, if John were to ever quit surgery all together, he would still have a future writing erotica.
The front door slams.
He hears John's heavy footsteps on the stairs, listens to him pass through the kitchen and living room, and then up the second flight of stairs until he stands just outside the door. It's slightly ajar and he would remember shutting it before he left. Sherlock watches him push it open with two fingers.
"Sherlock! What are you doing?"
He snaps the journal shut dramatically. "Just a bit of light reading," he says.
"Is that my…? That's private!" he stalks across the room and tries to take the journal from his flat mate. Sherlock dangles it out of his reach, forcing John to all but climb on top of him to get it.
He relinquishes he journal and wraps his arms around John's waist.
"Get off, Sherlock! I'm not in the mood tonight!"
He smirks. "Judging from the contents of your journal I'd say you're in the mood every night."
John stills in his arms. Sherlock slides one hand under his shirt and up the length of his spine.
"Sh-Sherlock?"
"Hush."
John's mouth is warm and sweet, tasting of tea and cinnamon biscuits, and he opens it gingerly when Sherlock's tongue requests entrance. He pulls back for breath a few moments later.
"We need to talk about this," he says.
"What's there to talk about? I know your thoughts on the matter," he smirks, "and I know mine. Everything else is in between."
John shakes his head. "This won't to be a cake walk, Sherlock. It's going to be a lot of work."
Sherlock kisses the palm of John's hand. "I like work."