By the time John reached the bottom of the stairs outside their flat and had a hand on the front door, his cautiousness had been overpowered by stark fear at running into Sherlock and his pal. The relief of escape into the wide world outside 221B was tangible in the chipped wood of the door, and he welcomed it.
Until a bony hand slapped down on his shoulder.
"Shit! Sorry," he apologised immediately for swearing, a reflex upon jerking around and seeing their landlady giving him a doubly-disapproving look.
He knew he was highly-strung, and from the look Mrs Hudson gave him, it was obvious on the outside as well. He had to force himself to take a breath, mostly so he didn't just bolt out of the building and into the fresh January air. The snow was falling heavily, masking the street in a white haze, but John couldn't step into it with Mrs Hudson pulling him back inside.
"Is everything alright, Mrs Hudson?" he asked cautiously, sending another wanting glance to the wintry freedom of London waiting just over the threshold.
"Not this time, young man. I don't know where to start with you, I really don't. This is how you escape me every time? You run out the door the first second you get? Is this how you deal with all your denial? Honestly, leaving poor Sherlock alone up there. Not that he isn't in trouble too. He ignores me but you're going to listen. Come on, Doctor Watson."
Struck silent with pure confusion, but finding himself following obediently anyway, John trailed his diminutive landlady to her quaint little kitchen. She sat him down and fixed him with a judgmental eye.
He tried not to squirm in the hard chair as the older woman watched him, her eyes asking a series of questions that he didn't quite want to answer right now. But then a thought struck him, and John frowned.
"Denial? What do you mean?"
Mrs Hudson liked to tease and hint on a regular basis about what he and Sherlock were, what they could be, all that malarkey. It left his head feeling like cotton was taking up his brain space.
"Do you know how much it must hurt him when his boyfriend goes around telling everyone he's not gay, that you're just friends? Just flatmates? Where do you get off on making love to him and then running out? And don't try to deny it dear, I know full well what you were doing. The whole street knows, probably," she fussed, blushing sweetly.
John felt his jaw near enough fall into his lap, blinking furiously as he tried to come to terms with what his landlady had just told him.
He tried for words, but they failed, so the doctor snapped his mouth shut and cleared his throat. There was another blush creeping up his neck, but he put that aside to really face her.
"Mrs Hudson... that wasn't me. Just so you know. That was just Sherlock - and, someone else, I'm assuming. I had..." John licked his lower lip as he fought back a giggle, because the whole damn situation was ridiculous really. "I had nothing to do with... that."
"I've had words with him, I've told him time and again to keep the noise down. He just says nothing, tunes me out. And I've never been able to find you in the aftermath to give you an earful either," she continued, as if she hadn't heard him.
Well, at least now I know Sherlock's done it before, John pondered silently. Mrs. Hudson carried on.
"And another thing...Oh…" There was a moment of awful realisation as the penny dropped. "John? He…...he's with someone else? Have you broken up?" She whispered tentatively, looking bereft.
John reached up and covered half of his face with his hand, moving to pinch the bridge of his nose to keep himself from either laughing or going mental.
Sherlock had done this before, and Mrs Hudson had presumed it was John, and that really explained why she was so adamant they were a thing.
Oh, for God's sake.
"We haven't broken up," he said slowly around gritted teeth. "We were never together. Before, or now. It was never me making him scre-" John cut himself off. "Wasn't me."
Mrs. Hudson looked adorably confused, and lost for words.
"But...you and him?" she asked, as if that was all that really needed to be said.
John huffed out a breath, softened by her wide eyes. She sounded thoroughly disappointed, and that was enough for him to let go of his frustration.
"Sorry, Mrs Hudson. Whoever is up there is the only one who... you know. Gets Sherlock."
John wondered at the maudlin sound of his own voice, even as he spoke.
"I don't think he even knew I was there today. I had a half-day, came home early. I honestly...don't know who he's with."
Mrs Hudson's eyes went wider before her pupils dilated, and John found himself squirming again at the new incredulous look that came over her.
"No idea at all?" she asked, although John could practically see the gears turning in her head.
"I hate to say it…" he began, hesitating.
Deduce, John, came a deep voice in his head, bordering on sarcasm.
"...Afterwards, he didn't..." He couldn't quite believe he was having this conversation. "He didn't say a word to her. Or...whoever it was. Just went to shower. So maybe it was, you know...someone he...paid for."
His voice had gotten quieter until it was barely audible. The place under his skin was burning with blushes.
Mrs Hudson didn't burst into embarrassed flutters like he expected her to do, though, so John found himself looking up despite the burn still dotting his skin. The landlady was still stood there, her face slightly slack, her eyes wide.
"Mrs Hudson?" he said quickly, for a moment hoping he hadn't shocked her into a stroke.
"I've never seen anyone," she said thoughtfully. "...Sherlock's a good-looking boy, why would he need to pay to bed someone?"
"I don't know, maybe his way with words," John shrugged, sounding more bitter than he had intended.
He didn't notice the sharp turn her head took, but thankfully her own thoughts seemed to draw her away from his tone and she started about the kitchen, no doubt making tea.
"It still doesn't make sense, dear," she said distractedly. "Maybe it's just someone he doesn't want us to meet? He might be nervous, poor thing. Either that, or he doesn't want someone in particular to know."
"If it's because it's...a man, he should know by now that I don't care." Liar. "Since when does he give a damn what other people think anyway? Even if he is as loud as a bloody firework," he managed to smirk feebly.
Mrs Hudson hummed under her breath, setting a teapot in the middle of her little table along with two cups and saucers. John tried not to pick at the fact she hadn't said anything else on the subject, and the more he studied her, the more he recognised the knowing in her eyes.
"Do you know who it is?" he tried, internally wincing at the edge his voice suddenly had. Christ, he was riding a fucking emotional roller-coaster this morning.
"I really couldn't say dear, but I have suspicions. But it's not my place to fill your head with what-ifs and maybes. If he's as blunt as you say, you won't have any problem getting him to tell you if you just ask him." She managed to sound fond and snarky at the same time.
John had to bite back a pout, his eyes flickering up to his landlady every other second as she poured tea.
"Have I met them?" he asked, trying for nonchalance but knowing he hadn't pulled it off in the slightest. He did notice a small quirk in the corner of her mouth, though, and John fumed internally.
As he tried to rehearse how to word his next query and not sound like a pining teenager, the rumble of heavy steps above his head instilled a cold lump of dread in his chest that pumped ice water through his veins. The seconds between that ominous sound and a fully-dressed, damp-haired Sherlock breezing into the kitchen seemed to have been fast-forwarded by some cruel deity.
The detective swooped down to Mrs. Hudson and kissed her on the cheek. John noted that she looked enviably unruffled. Sherlock turned and grinned widely at him, only appearing briefly surprised to see him. His expression was open, soft...happy.
"John! You're back early. Did you get fired again?"
Sherlock rarely looked that giddy and carefree, usually when he got a particularly interesting case. Now, John was starting to doubt his mood swings, considering he was constantly being presented with the evidence that the man may have had a partner for longer than he wanted to know.
"Uh, no, what? No, I just got off early," he said, completely unable to stop himself from mumbling at the whirlwind that was Sherlock after an orgasm.
"Indeed!" Sherlock beamed, his eyes twinkling with private laughter at John's phrasing. He turned to Mrs. Hudson, and disarmed her with a stare. Standing tall, he took a deep inhale and prepared for what looked to be a momentous announcement.
"Hudders, I feel duty bound to inform you that we have a ghost. A poltergeist. I expect a reduction in the rent next month."
H... Hudders? John found himself completely dumbfounded, by both Sherlock's evident good mood and the pet name he'd apparently just given to Mrs Hudson right on the spot. He rarely got to see this side of Sherlock. Maybe he never got to see it because he planned his little trysts around John's absence. That thought both confused him and shot a spike of jealousy right to his gut. He only managed to clamber up to the conversation when he realised how strange the announcement had been.
"A poltergeist? What are you on about, Sherlock?"
Maybe his tone was a little more biting than he'd intended, but he wasn't about to explain himself. Not that he could find the words, anyway.
"I vacated my room to find that all the windows that I had previously opened wide, were closed. And the heating was off, and the room was cold. That's a sign of demonic infestation, or so I hear?"
He directed this question at John, and in a second, his grin had turned fiendish, but still without malice.
John felt his spine go rigid and for a moment he was well and truly flustered. Thankfully he had enough control to clamp down on it. He had two options, deny it and risk another one of those wicked knowing smirks, or come clean and politely skip around the whole listening-to-Sherlock-having-sex thing. Christ.
"That was me, you pleb. You had the heating on and the windows open. Are you trying to drown us in gas bills? We can barely afford it as it is." That's right, he told himself. Skirt around the subject. Not like there was an elephant in the room.
"John, don't be ridiculous, we have lots of money. Well, I have lots of money. But you can share it." Sherlock treated him to one of his most infuriatingly-winning smiles.
John clenched and released his teeth, trying his hardest not to shift under that stupid grin. Since when did Sherlock smile so much, anyway? When he knows all the answers, of course.
Sherlock, it had to said, was glowing. If he did this often, it's no surprise he looked so young and his skin was so fucking perfect. Apart from his flushed face and sparkling green eyes, he didn't look like a man who had just been wiped out by a massive orgasm.
Sherlock, glancing innocently between John and his landlady, shrugged. "Well, there might still be a ghost, and I'm afraid to say that exorcism isn't among my skills. So I expect a reduction in rent, Mrs. Hudson, the place would be unliveable with a malevolent entity inhabiting it. Besides which, we're drowning in bills, don't you know." He paused to grin unabashedly at John. "If you're going upstairs, either of you, I beg you allow twenty minutes or so. My friend is quite shy. I would have liked to maintain complete privacy on this matter, but since you both clearly know now, the subject is unavoidable."
John felt his jaw hang open before he was quick to pick it up. There was someone up there. Of course there was. And Sherlock had just admitted to it. He'd heard it, with his own ears. Jesus Christ, Sherlock Holmes has a girlfriend. Or, well. Boyfriend. He must have done something like blink too many times in a second because Sherlock swept his piercing eyes towards John, who quite frankly at this point, was speechless.
Mrs Hudson was looking at him too, and the contrast would have been funny if his insides weren't squirming under the attention. Whereas Sherlock looked bright and rejuvenated, Mrs Hudson looked almost disappointed, and she was giving John a small, pitying smile.
"Well," he said after a moment, slapping his hands to his thighs and getting to his feet. "I'll uh, just go out, then."
"Why? You've only just started your tea. You've had quite a shock, that much is clear for anyone to see. You have questions, I'm sure. You may ask what you like later, but be aware that you may not get an answer. I am entitled to some privacy, after all. I'm sure you and Mrs. Hudson have much to discuss."
Taking a fortifying breath, Sherlock beamed again, and the crinkly smile that usually made John's stomach flip-flop with affection, now did the same with rather more nauseous results.
The detective straightened his impeccable clothes and turned with a flourish, calling back loudly, "I need to go and say goodbye."
John couldn't even splutter a response, far too agitated for his own good. He decided that he needed to stay quiet and still his racing heart, otherwise he would say something that made him look like an idiot. Not that it mattered, really, considering he was just stood there half-poised to run.
He watched the detective go, taking the steps two at a time as if he couldn't wait to say goodbye to whoever had given him what sounded like a mind-blowing orgasm.
"See," he said, turning back to his landlady. "It wasn't me." Oh, and didn't that come out with an edge of steel?
"Oh, John," Mrs. Hudson cooed, with anguish in her eyes, and a supportive hand on his arm. He looked up at her, startled.
"...Why are you pitying me? I don't care. I just thought we were friends, that's all. He could've told me," he muttered, well aware that he was officially griping now.
Mrs Hudson's hand gripped him a little tighter, almost as if creating an anchor point for him. But it was ridiculous. It was all ridiculous, and he hoped the smile he gave the dear woman reflected that. Mrs Hudson didn't miss a beat, giving him another one of her sad smiles.
"You should tell him, you know."
"Mrs. Hudson!" He exclaimed, not shouting, not quite. But certainly a warning volume to anyone who knew the sometimes hot-tempered doctor. "I don't know what's playing out in your head, but you can't know every little nuance of Sherlock's and my life just from living below us. Just...please, drop it," he said more quietly, deflating. "I admit, this has...thrown me for a loop. But I can't even tell you precisely why right now."
He watched her body jerk tall, and felt himself deflate even more. It had been a quick reaction, one he couldn't have stopped. It could have been the pity in her tone, or what she had implied. All of it; he just needed to drop all of it.
Without really thinking, John turned.
"Thank you for the tea," he added quickly as he stepped into the hallway. He couldn't quite stop another glance up the stairs, almost as if he could work out the puzzle himself.
What the puzzle, really? Why did he even care who Sherlock was fucking? Before he could go up the stairs to find out, John had to clear his head. No doubt he'd be faced with Sherlock's knowing grin when he got back. Sherlock would be expecting questions, no doubt lining up all the answers.
He would have described Sherlock as unbearably smug, but...he couldn't. It wasn't as if he had bragged to John about finding an amazing partner. He hadn't said a single word, and had managed to keep it secret for...well, perhaps from the very beginning. If it had been him...he was ashamed to admit that he'd be the first one to gloat...or at least preen a little about it.
Instead Sherlock had done the opposite, he even seemed a little put out at the fact that John - and Mrs Hudson knew. Not that they could have done anything else, the man had been howling like a banshee so what else would they have thought? It messed with his head far more than it should have, probably because it had messed with his body, too.
And that...that was the crux.
The vital, tiny, massive detail that he really didn't want to contemplate. For now, the absolute maximum of thought he wanted to assign to it was that he had become aroused from the frankly spectacular, carnal thrill of sex. Sex that just happened to be going on very loudly on the other side of his kitchen.
In Sherlock's bed.
He vacated the flat, taking a deep, lung-burning breath of frozen January air. It both numbed and energised him, and he began to walk.