A/N: So Mycroft's diet is working out better than initially expected and...

Word Count: 1,300+

Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, John/ladies, very briefly mentioned Mycroft/Lestrade

Warning(s): John smells weird. Also, references to sex, smells, unrequited affections, Anderson and lesbians.

Sense

Along with the heightened use of his other senses, Sherlock's sense of smell was superb. Usually, his wasn't the most pleasant of skills – London, and cities In general, were far from being the most pleasantly scented, especially when one was well acquainted with the homeless of the area. But it was the people he knew that were by far the worst. He hated Molly's perfume, she always put far too much on without seeming to mean to, and the cologne Lestrade wore was distracting enough when it didn't mingle with Mycroft's. Mrs. Hudson smelled pleasant enough usually, but the, ahem, herbal soothers often threw him off. Anderson's reek was and is unspeakable.

John, though.

Sherlock liked the way John smelled. He couldn't explain the scent, really, much less explain why it was so appealing. John never wore cologne, smelling only of his medical issue shampoo and his own natural scent. What that scent actually pertained was actually lost on Sherlock – he smelled like tea and then like musk and like London rain and like detergent and like autumn, all in one afternoon. And yet with his inconsistent aroma, one that Sherlock could never quite get close enough to pin down, John never smelled bad. Not when he was sick, not when he'd just come home from the surgery, not even when they were both collapsed after springing through London for miles. B.O, apparently, did not apply to John Watson.

Sherlock wouldn't admit it, but he would sometimes covertly breathe John in over the nape of his neck while he was blogging or engrossed in a book. For science, of course – results: pleasing, but inconclusive.

There were days, however, that John came home carrying a scent that was not his own. Covering John's pleasant musk would be the assaulting smell of artificial apricots, bleach and cheap perfume, strawberries, or dusk Noir. Each of these scents triggered a name in Sherlock's head – Laura, Sarah, Jasmine, Katherine. Sometimes, he'd simply smell like sex. Those nights were the worst and Sherlock would put sanitizer under his nose and will himself not to perceive.

Sherlock tried not to care. He shouldn't care, really. He knew John liked women and had relations to them. It hardly mattered. Except that it did.

The sheer number of them was enough to throw Sherlock off, especially since he seemed to be so serious about each one. Not because he cared about the virtue of these women or the sanctity of intercourse but because every single one of them stung, individually. Each girlfriend was one more person who John chose over Sherlock.

Sherlock knew it was ludicrous. John was straight and, anyway, relationships weren't Sherlock's area. But, with John, he found himself wishing that they were. It was a painful infliction, to put it lightly, and it led to countless nights crouched in a scalding shower, failing to delete the desire from his mind.

That night John came home smelling like cheap hairspray (Tessa Tessa Tessa) and practically radiating rage. Sherlock peered up at him as he barged in and chucked a bag (overnight bag, planned on staying the night, intercourse) his coat (stained, severely –wine, cheap). Sherlock stared at John as he flumped into his chair; John sat still and allowed himself to be deduced, if only out of habit.

"Are you OK?" Sherlock asked, first, because sometimes he really did try to work on his courtesy. John just stared at him. Sherlock sighed. "She cheated on you, probably with another woman, definitely with someone taller than you. You're angry but more humiliated that you put so much investment in her and also because you were blind to her disloyalties. You walked in on them, not having sex, having dinner, but it was obvious; she was supposed to have plans with you but she forgot, she's really stupid, John. You brought her flowers but you dumped them somewhere, maybe threw them at her; they were nice, too, expensive. You should have kept them, I know I have a vase somewhere."

"Bastard." John smiled. Somehow, that always relieved him, and although Sherlock couldn't imagine why he was always happy to provide service.

"So I've been told," said Sherlock. He glanced at the discarded coat. "Bit shameless of her, though, throwing wine at you. She's taller than you, though, how did she miss your face…?"

John grunted and shook his head, letting himself go slack in the chair. Then, he grumbled, "She had dumb hair anyway."

"Hmm." Sherlock covered his smile by flipping onto his back; John wasn't looking at him anyway.

"I'm gonna shower, OK? Will you make tea?"

Sherlock smirked. "Deleted it again."

"I figured." John sighed and plodded, still somewhat remorsefully, into the bathroom. AN hour and three minutes later a freshly-showered John was plopped on the couch beside Sherlock, tea in hand, crap tele blaring. Sitting so close to Sherlock would have been dangerous for almost anyone else, but the only thing John was in danger of was being assaulted by his flat mate's nose.

Half way into an episode of some low-budget quiz show John is, on cue, babbling. "Am I crazy or something, Sherlock? Is that why women don't like me? Am I just a complete social horror story and don't even know it because I'm so horrible?"

Sherlock snorted. "You're asking me?" John seemed to consider this, and then grinned in agreement. "Yes, you see? Ask Lestrade if you're so interested. I'd say they're all just too boring."

"Heh, yeah. Probably," John said. Then he glowered at the television for a moment and Sherlock looked over and watched him, a smile toying on his lips. Then John sighed, scowling. "Honestly, I'm about to just quit dating altogether. Just give up. Women aren't what they used to be, Sherlock."

Sherlock felt an unexpected flutter in his chest at the words and, fighting the urge to grin, he nudged John, hoping it wasn't too obviously an excuse to get closer to him. If it was, John didn't show it.

"Liar," Sherlock said. Then, boldly: "Wish you weren't, though. I like you better when you're single."

John huffed. "Yeah, I'm sure you do. No dates to get in the way of your crazy escapades. Insufferable bastard." Before Sherlock could register it John slung an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and side-hugged him. It was an incredibly awkward and unexpected gesture but Sherlock melted all the same. Today, John smelled like mangos, herbal tea, and wet firewood – all in all, unexpectedly pleasant.

"You're not half bad, Holmes," John mused, smiling lightly.

Sherlock resisted the urge to press his nose into John's neck. Muttered, "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Bloody brilliant detective, obviously, but an alright friend, too. I think I'll stay."

"Mhm, well, I like you well enough too, I suppose…" Sherlock responded.

After a few moments of poker-faces they'd both busted into stomach-cramping, relieving laughter, doubling over and falling over each other and shoving each other about until they somehow settled. Sherlock ended up splayed out on John's lap, head on the arm rest, and John slouched diagonal with his feet on the coffee table, both watching tele and grinning like children. Somehow, the position doesn't feel uncomfortable, even when Sherlock finds himself actually dosing off there, lulled by the drone of the tele and John's familiar scent. He half-wakes only when John heaves him into his arms and puts him in his bed, tucking him in and ruffling his hair before leaving him to sleep. John can't know how long Sherlock laid there after he left, archiving the memories away in the safest corner of his mind.

Three days later, John returned home smelling strongly of fake ginger and lilies. Later, he'll call it Stephanie, and Sherlock will say, "Boring," and pretend that he hadn't had his hopes up, anyway.

If reviews had an odor, what would they smell like...?