+1

"That’s true…I don’t think I would be able to name a single person who would like that. Well I guess you can when he tries to chat you up over a corpse by saying I look better than a dead 80 year old. Umm well I get off work at six…how about eight at my flat…you know where that is don’t you?"

"He did not really do that, did he? And that was supposed to be a compliment? Gosh, I have heard better chat-up lines from first graders! Though, it shouldn't surprise me. First impressions and suchlike. Anyway, eight sounds marvellous and I'm sure I'll figure out where you live. I have a specialist in ascertaining important things at home, in case I fail."

It wasn’t a notion Sherlock hadn’t entertained before, but the thought still draws a groan of irritation from him. Without a doubt he would have juggled with a few roommates, none staying too long and leaving with compensation for their time, before Mycroft would become angered enough to simply put him in housing that he saw fit. Sherlock turns to smile at John though, appreciating him in a new light. “It is for the best that we met then, isn’t it?”

"Some would call it fate. But yes, I consider myself as extremely lucky, indeed." And that was wholeheartedly nothing but the truth. Not only because John had lost the dreaded cane and lived in his favourite town, but also because living with Sherlock Holmes had helped him to widen his horizons. Admittedly not always in a good way, it was never a good thing when one of their cases involved a rather ugly violent death. But nothing was more satisfying than bringing  vicious murderers to their justice. "I guess, you both would’ve killed each other by now. Imagine that headline!”

+1

"I guess so but I don’t think he meant it so it’s not that bad…I mean I don’t like being compared to Anderson but it wasn’t out of malice I hope. Yes…I think Sherlock has called everyone John at some point. You…you ahh you want to have dinner with me? Tha..that sounds wonderful John…I think I would really like that."

"Show me only one person that wants to be compared to Anderson, though I shouldn't really talk so bad about another human being. But it's hard to feel remorse when all he does is insulting and belittling Sherlock and his work. Yes, I'd love to. In fact, I'd feel honoured. Just tell me when and where to pick you up."

Being a couple either romantically or platonically, Sherlock thoroughly enjoyed John and didn’t care how it was labeled. Although the slight tint to John’s cheeks as he mentions it makes him wonder the possibility of something more than friends, something he won’t press just yet. Instead, his smile widens even more and he gives a carefree shrug back to John. Most of what he lists is simply things he has come to understand were not okay, ‘not good’ was their code word for it. “Do you mean we could find worse people or that we could do worse to each other?” He teases, more than happy to turn the conversation to lighter waters.

"A bit of both, I guess." John was more than glad that his friend hadn’t picked up on the stupid couple remark, they really didn’t need even more awkwardness between them. Anyway, he never understood the people’s obsession the status of their relationship. "Imagine we had never met… you’d be stuck with Mycroft and I’d have left London ages ago. Probably would live in an ugly little room somewhere on the country side, still hobbling around with my cane." The doctor shuddered at the thought, even more so when the question arose if Sherlock would had succumb to his addiction, if he hadn’t walked through the park that day and met Mike Stamford.

This was an event that would duly noted - never drink that much wine and don’t much drinks - surely a genius would have known that but, Sherlock occasionally like his shield drop and tried to enjoy ‘normal’ things. He had enjoyed last night, it had been fun and he wasn’t going to pitch the idea of it never happening again for if it did then now, he would know to slow down. Out of the two of them, Sherlock didn’t seem to care what people thought, he never denied that they were more than friends and simply let John do the talking as they appeared to be affected by the accusations. Sherlock didn’t would to dampen their parade and just let them get on with it. It wasn’t an insult that John denied it, more protection, the world wasn’t a safe place for anyone out of the norm, Sherlock knew first hand the comments people would throw at him and that was just for being clever.

But being gay or bisexual or anything else, people tended to raise an eyebrow when the person involved was over the age of twenty and wasn’t a sweet old man. It ruined that illusion for them that people could live their lives and also be attracted to the same sex or identify as a non binary gender, apparently that just couldn’t happen. Yet people always insisted on labelling others. It was a double edged sword and not one that Sherlock liked balancing upon. 

His finger ran around the rim of the much of tea and he took another drink before setting it aside to let it cool. “It’s easier to lie, makes the whole thing seem less-” painful? embarrassing? shameful? “-it makes it seem like there was a reason for my actions. You’re a straight man and I didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, thus, why I lied” or so Sherlock had assumed John’s sexuality which one should never do but it is common practice to assume straight before discovering later on that he was wrong, “I half expected you to punch me in the face or push me off. So-” he cleared his throat, his head was still ringing “-I suppose I should thank you for not doing that” a pause and Sherlock groaned in pain, “Painkillers, I need painkillers”

And there it was, that dreaded word. Yes, John Watson labelled himself as a straight man. But he had to, hadn't he? He would never forget the expression on his mother's face when his sister came out. A mixture of rage, disappointment and... disgust. He'd never seen her like that. Never wanted to ever again. Not, if he could prevent it. And it wasn't difficult at all. John Watson loved women. Their softness, the lushness of their curves in all the right places, the gentle voices whispering in his ear when he made them shiver in bed... made it easy to forget about a few encounters during his days in Afghanistan. Desperate stealthiness in desperate times. Just a way to provide comfort in an environment gone insane. John had deleted most of it a long time ago.

A picture rose in his mind. New Year's Eve, an abandoned warehouse, a woman, black dress, red lipstick. Look at us both. He hadn't liked what she'd been implying. Look at us both. Sherlock was her exception, did that mean... Blindly, he reached out for his cup, too hastily, spilling some of the hot liquid over the rim and onto his hand. He didn't even notice. Unwittingly, John's gaze had wandered to Sherlock's face and it was suddenly a bit more difficult to breathe or move, as if someone had replaced the air with treacle. And the lump in his throat seemed impossible to be swallowed down.

It took him a lot of effort to stay put, a lot of effort to lift the cup to his mouth for another sip. Somehow, he managed. Comfortingly, the tea ran down his throat, helped to dissolve whatever held him back from talking. "I thought we were above all that labelling business. You know what I am, and I know that you put your work above everything else." Married to his work, John remembered too well the remark on their first evening spent together. "It was... unexpected, so a punch would have been within the realms of possibility, but I still don't understand why the truth would've made me feel uncomfortable. I've done more stupid things in the past when I was drunk, a drunken kiss with my best mate doesn't even make it into the top three." He stood up to walk over to the cupboard and retrieved the pain killers from the drawer. Placing the bottle in front of Sherlock, he added with feigned certainty in his voice. "If you wish... we never have to talk about it again." 

+1

"Well he does say some silly things…I think the worse thing he called me was Anderson. I didn’t speak to him the whole day…they he got angry and called me stupid so I don’t think that really worked. Well…umm it took me two years to find Tom it might take me even longer to find a blond guy willing to date me."

"Uh, that's rude! I don't think he had even noticed, he has the habit of talking to me even when I'm not in the country. You'll never know what goes on in his ingenious mind. Well... last time I checked I still found a few blond strands hiding in all that grey hair, so... if you wouldn't mind, I'd love to take you out to dinner anytime soon."

Reblog if you have a Skype. Send me an ask if you want mine.

"It’s not your fault…you didn’t know it locked like this." Molly said stepping away from the door again knowing that there was no way of getting it open. "I don’t know I guess they thought no one would get stuck down here…" she said rubbing her eyes and yawned. "I’m working the graveyard shift tonight and I was just doing paper work so if anyone is going to come down here it’s not going to be for a while…sorry John I should have just carried everything down myself." she mumbled.

"Don't apologise, it is hardly your fault either that the bloody door doesn't have a bloody handle." John was prone to swearing when he was under stress, and the idea of spending the night in the basement of St. Bart's wasn't something he'd call a perfect evening, no matter how lovely his company was. He examined the shelf carefully, with little to no success. "One tiny screwdriver. Really? Well, that little thing won't get us out of here, we better think about how to make it comfortable for us. That might take a while till someone misses us."

+1

"Ttthank you John that’s nice of you to say, I guess i’m just used to Sherlock telling me I’m thick that i’ve started to believe it. I make him coffee and give him autopsy reports he doesn’t care about anything else. I guess I do have a type maybe I should start only dating blonds and see how that goes?" 

"Yeah, that's the usual effect he has on, what he calls, normal people like us. And that's putting it nicely. I've been called worse. But he never really means it like that. You get used to it over time. Now here's an idea I like, already cast an eye on somebody special?"

At the release, Sherlock’s hands hung limply by his side but his eyes were still wide and fixed on John, waiting for sort of response that might signal that they were distressed. He was leaning forward, watching John like a hawk through sleep deprived vision. Perhaps his reactions were a little delayed for Sherlock only noticed the cups of coffee on the table but hadn’t clocked them being made - or he hadn’t been paying attention which would be a more reasonable excuse for his lack of concentration. Food wasn’t going to be an option, not today, Sherlock’s stomach was far too unstable to consume anything and he was probably still a little drunk or tipsy from the night before given he hadn’t had time to sleep anything off. 

A mug was presented to him, Sherlock frowned at it and took it with both hands before sitting down at the table. No use standing, it might seem that the two were going to have a ‘serious’ discussion about the previous events, that and Sherlock was getting himself worked up over it - even if it wasn’t physically showing but the tiny cogs in his mind were whirling at high speed. He sipped on the hot tea and took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxed, just a little and he closed his eyes. John was right, it would make him feel better. He tapped his fingers on the side of the white mug; it had a picture of several bees, painted on and then glossed over; and opened his eyes. A bemused smile covered his lips. “Some solutions aren’t always the expected ones” the mug was placed back down on the table and Sherlock tried his best to keep wired.

"I misjudged myself and acted in a foolish way, my previous statement, it was a badly crafted lie and-" Sherlock breathed out, "-you can accept my apology for any discomfort that you may have suffered" there was more to be said but, for now, Sherlock would let that all sink for John.

John just managed to steady himself on the counter behind him. He surely wasn't looking forward to discuss the previous evening and its unusual event, but he'd never been a friend of putting unpleasant affairs into cold storage. His hands encompassed his cup firmly, absorbing the emanating heat he so desperately needed. Watching his friend sitting down, he followed suit, grateful to be able to hide the shaking of his knees. He wasn't sure if it was caused by the effects of the tiny bits of alcohol still running through is system or if the tension in the room made his stomach twist and turn. Let's not forget Sherlock's searching look, which did one more thing to his inner turmoil. All in all, it was fair to say that John Watson felt more than just a bit queasy.

The doctor found it hard to calm his breathing. For years now, he was fighting the obstinate rumour that the two of them were more than just friends. No one really seemed to care if he insisted again and again that yes, there was a special bond that linked them inseparably, but no, not at all in a romantic way. But why then... could he still picture Sherlock's face slowly coming closer, his gaze fixed on the doctor's lips, why could he still feel the soft pressure of lips on his own when he closed his eyes?  

He took a small sip before he put the cup down and propped his elbows on the table, his hands folded in front of his face to cover his suddenly burning lips. "You don't owe me an apology, it takes two to tango, I was every bit as drunk as you. But what I really like to know is why you lied in the first place and what solution you did expect." This could go badly wrong, but John was willing to take a leap into the unknown. 

Laying back in the dirty, beat up old reclining chair, facing the television screen which was playing the news on a low volume, Greg was on his phone with his brother as John slept off the night before. The officer’s flat was far closer than John’s home and it seemed the logical place to crash. Greg hadn’t put back as many as the other, or his tolerance was higher, he wasn’t sure which. Turning towards the new voice, Greg smiled, “We did.” before he turned his attention back to his mobile, explaining to his brother he had to go. 

Ever so slowly, John sat up and rested his aching head in the palms of his hands. He was bewildered by the calm statement of the officer, but waited patiently for Greg to finish his phone call. Carefully, he stretched his muscles, testing if he was already able to manage a walk to the loo. The sudden dizziness made it abundantly clear that this activity should be shunted to a later time. So he just sank back into the cushions, only one urgent question on his lips. "Care to elaborate? I seemed to have a mental blackout, the last thing I remember was the very bad whiskey in the second pub." 

"I think I’m fine on all other subjects. Mycroft knows better than to argue with me too often. I am the one in charge of his schedule after all, one wrong move and he can end up looking like a fool at a meeting. Oh you stop that. Don’t you know that flattery gets you nowhere in life, Doctor Watson?"

"Oh, isn't it nice to have the government at your mercy? But honestly, who wouldn't enjoy that? I bet, you can be very persuasive and utterly persistent. Does he like it when you give him a taste of his own medicine? Oh, please, can you drop the doctor? I'm pretty sure you know my first name. And it doesn't count as flattery when it conforms the truth."

+1

"I know but well when we can’t keep up with him we do look a little silly don’t we? I’m smart I guess but…It’s nothing that special. I umm well I’m just used to it you know? I don’t mind it really. You don’t need to apologise John you haven’t done anything wrong, it’s not your fault I have a bad taste in men."

"Believe me, you are something special. You're way above average and just because we don't meet his high standards... that does not not diminish what he really thinks of us. But you really do have a type, don't you? What's it about the dark haired ones, with the crazy minds, that makes them so irresistible?"

Molly placed the box down just as she heard the door slam shut behind them. “John…did the door just close?” she asked turning around to look at John and her eyes widened. “Oh no…no no no” she mumbled walking over to the door trying to pry it open with her fingers. “I guess there has to be something…” she said looking around the room spotting a metal box attached to one of the walls. “That looks like it might be an emergency phone or something.” she pointed out.

"Unfortunately... yes, I fear I clumsily kicked away that small wedge." John's eyes darted to the box in question and hurried  across the room to give it a closer look. "Hm, it's locked. Who the heck locks a bloody emergency phone?" He pulled out his phone, only to pocket it again after a brief check. "And of course there's no reception in here. Great."  His gaze wandered through the room and came to a rest on the shelves at the opposite wall. "Do you think we might find some tools over there? We have to do something, it's already late, I don't think one of your colleagues will come and look for us."