A/N: Happy Easter everyone! This chapter is dedicated to Jesus.

Word Count: 1,575+

Pairing(s): John/Sherlock

Warning(s): Fake boobs. Also, John acts like a teenage boy, Sherlock is a deviant, and Mrs. Hudson is a great defender of the sanctity of marriage.

She Had the Body of a Venus, Lord (Imagine My Surprise)

John is used to coming home to strange things. He lives with Sherlock Holmes, after all – his whole life is strange things. It's bizarre to come home and find normal things at this point.

So John isn't really that surprised walk in the door of his flat and find a woman sitting in Sherlock's chair. A little freaked out, granted – as far as John knew they hadn't been expecting anybody, so she was either uninvited or Sherlock had a lady friend he didn't know about. But not surprised.

"Um, you're here to see Sherlock right? Are you a…client?" John asked cautiously, hanging his coat on the hook, mentally trying to figure if the woman could possibly be a threat to either his wellbeing or his pride. The woman arched a delicate eyebrow at him and brushed a strand of her long, dark hair behind her ear. Her gaze was far more intense than it really should have been in the given situation and John, already feeling distinctly uncomfortable, shifted into a defensive posture.

"Not quite, doctor Watson," she said, finally, voice curling with mischief. "I'm here to see you, actually."

"Me?" John's eyebrows scrunched and he looked at her, trying to analyze her by her appearance. She sat like a proper lady, posture perfect, legs crossed. She wore a black, knee-length dress, belted at the waist and ruffling down from that point. Smooth, toned legs ended in high heels, despite her already intimidating height, and a fluffy white scarf wound around her neck despite the heat of the afternoon. She had a nice body (John winced at his own observation), very tall, lanky, perhaps a bit muscular, narrow hips, average bust-line, with pale ivory skin. John quickly moved his gaze to her face. It was slightly obstructed by the swoop of her dark but she was clearly quite attractive, if not vaguely masculine along the jaw line; her lips were painted red and eye-makeup applied lightly. Her eyes, which narrowed at him slightly as he met their gaze, looked almost out of place, a muted caramel brown.

"Checking me out, Doctor?" the woman said, coming out as a near purr.

John blushed furiously. "Excuse me?"

"No need to be shy," she said, laughter edging her tone. "I'm not modest and, anyway…" As John stared the woman stood and sauntered over; despite himself John's eyes darted to catch the sway of her hips. It was only for a moment, but she clearly caught it, because she smirked triumphantly as she finished: "I was checking you out, too."

John froze as the woman's hand slid down his chest, painted fingernails scraping over the cloth, very nearly forgetting himself at the sudden provocation – but only for a moment.

"Ah! Hey! No." John swatted her hand away, face flushed in an angry scarlet. When the woman frowned and tried it again he caught her wrist and held it away, eyes wide. "Look, lady, I don't know who put you up to this, but I'm John Watson. Sherlock Holmes's husband, if you bothered to check."

The woman took a step backwards and watched, face blank, as John raised his hand and pointed to his wedding ring. Then, slowly, the woman smirked again.

And then, to John's relief, she spoke, voice dropping into a familiar baritone: "Oh, John, you sweet, lovable fool. Did I really trick you?"

John gasped, dropping the hand. "Sherlock!"

"Please," Sherlock said, voice sliding back into its (shockingly realistic) feminine tones. It was incredible, now that John knew it, just how well Sherlock fell into female mannerisms, as if his very essence could be changed at will. The world had lost quite the actor to the world of crime fighting. Sherlock smirked. "Call me Sherla."

"Sherla? Yes, alright." John felt a rumble of laughter rise in his chest and he smiled, reaching up to cup his cheek. "I was beginning to think myself disloyal for a moment. I haven't been tempted in years, you know."

"It's because I'm irresistible, Doctor Watson. You mustn't feel guilty," "Sherla" purred, and he lifted his hands to John's hips, eyes glittering with amusement beneath the colored contacts. "I'm sure your husband wouldn't mind."

Deciding to play along John pressed his forehead to Sherlock's, chuckling. "I'm not sure," he said. "He's awfully possessive. But I'm sure he'll get over it." "Sherla" hummed appreciatively and closed his eyes as John pulled him close and sealed their lips together.

Being a staunch-heterosexual-with-an-asterisk-named-Sherlock as John just so happened to be, John couldn't honestly say he didn't sometimes miss the feeling of skirts brushing against his legs or passive, glossed lips on his. Such thoughts rarely plagued him anymore, of course – being married to a man didn't leave much room for such thoughts, and the sex continued to be great even after five years – it was still a glorious sensation to welcome back as he kissed "Sherla's" scarlet painted lips, the experience frankly feminine despite the familiar, tell-tale roughness of Sherlock's chemical-burnt hands on his neck accompanying it.

He was so caught up in the sensation that he didn't think of the implications of such a thing, much less to close the door, as he ravaged the mouth of his disguised husband. Until:

"Oh dear – John?"

John startled and broke apart from the embrace at the shocked and (to his mild bewilderment) horrified voice of Mrs. Hudson. The woman stood wide-eyed at the door, mouth agape, clutching a feather duster. John blinked. "Oh, hello, Mrs. Hudson. Sorry we didn't close the door, we were a bit distract—"

Mrs. Hudson appeared to implode.

"John Hamish Watson I am ashamed of you. The very thought! The idea! Oh, I knew you were a ladies man in your day, sir, but – augh! What would Sherlock say? Oh, dear, Sherlock…" Before John could follow her train of thought (much less correct it) Mrs. Hudson had descended, smacking John repeatedly over the head with the feather duster. "Shame on you! Shame! Oh, don't you think I won't be reporting this to your husband, John! I do not tolerate adultery, not when I've seen it with my very eyes, oh no!" Mrs. Hudson turned a sharp eye on the supposed adultee. "You do know he's a married man, young lady?"

The "young lady" in question smiled. "I am aware," he said, amused. John gaped; Mrs. Hudson reeled.

"'Lock—!"

"The disgrace! The disloyalty! Ohhh, my faith in humanity is destroyed!" Mrs. Hudson flipped the feather duster around and jabbed John in the stomach with the handle with expert precision; John gasped disbelievingly and did his best to swat it away and explain, but Mrs. Hudson was, at the moment, a mother scorned, and would hear nothing of it. "I thought you were a good man, Doctor Watson! A great man! Where did it go wrong? Oh, goodness, you'll break poor Sherlock's heart!"

"Mrs. Hudson—" John was cut short by a feather duster to the face.

Sherlock apparently decided to have pity on his husband, because he pulled off the wig, popped out the contacts, and wiped off the remainder of the already-well-smeared lipstick onto his wrist before letting his posture fall into his usual stance. "I assure you, Mrs. Hudson," he said, usual deep drawl returning. "My honor does not need defending."

John nearly collapsed in relief when Mrs. Hudson whirled to face Sherlock. She stood there for a drawn moment before her stunned expression cracked and twisted into one of near deviousness. "Ohh, Sherlock! You dog! I should have known."

"Not to worry, Mrs. Hudson. I had John fooled for a bit as well, although he adamantly refused to bend his monogamous ways long enough for me to properly test the realistic qualities of these, which was a bit of a disappointment." Sherlock reached up and squeezed his… breasts. John paled; if there was ever something he'd never expected to observe, that was it. Mrs Hudson glanced between the two of them, eyebrows raised, then giggled.

"Oh, yes. Well. I'll leave you two to it, then." Mrs. Hudson tutted and shuffled out of the room, closing the door behind her. John blushed after her, still holding his stomach where she'd jabbed him; Mrs. Hudson was surprisingly strong.

Sherlock, seemingly entirely unfazed by the whole ordeal, tapped John on the shoulder. "May we continue where we left off, or is the 'mood' ruined?" Sherlock actually made the quotes in the air, still-faintly-colored lips pursed.

John turned, still wide eyed, and considered this. After a moment his eyes dropped to the object in Sherlock's hand. "Will you put the wig back on?"

"Of course."

"And, ah…" John reached somewhat cautiously up to Sherlock's chest and squeezed, trying quite hard not to blush while sure to put enough pressure so Sherlock would feel it on some level. "These?"

Sherlock bit back a snicker, clearly smug. "Yes, John. Surprisingly realistic, aren't they?"

"Yeah, actually… though I haven't actually felt any real ones for a while." John, apparently tossing inhibition out the window, leaned to press his face between them, grinning.

Sherlock smirked. "Well, don't get attached to them."

"Okay, I won't," John said. But, considering the blown condition of his pupils when he looked up again, he might have been lying. "You're wearing a bra. Are you wearing panties?"

"Of course."

"Lacy ones?"

Sherlock actually blushed at that question, but he nodded.

John's grin stretched from ear to ear.

"Can I take them off?"

Brownie points for anyone who caught the Aerosmith lyrics in the title right away.