Archive of Our Own

He's bored. Bored bored bored bored bored, and John and Mrs. Hudson will be furious if there's any more property damage to the flat. Going outside, however, means getting dressed, and he can't be arsed. Maybe he can phone Molly to bring something round to the flat that he can experiment on, but she hasn't been speaking to him. Lately, when he comes round to the morgue, she gets him whatever he's requested and leaves, not even looking at him. Today is Lestrade's day off, so he won't have any cases.

It's a beautiful day outside.

Everything is so hateful.

God, he'd probably take a case from Mycroft, right now.

He spots the edge of something pink on the coffee table, underneath a pile of wrinkled newspapers. He sends said pile of newspapers to the floor in the process of tugging it out. It's a women's magazine, with some Photoshopped celebrity grinning off the front cover, bold lettering across her torso assuring the reader that she has secrets to losing weight and having really great sex. Sherlock occupies himself for a moment sniffing, licking, and fondling the magazine. Not his or John's, obviously; has a new baby, less than four months old; works at a hospital; nonsmoker. Probably that client last Tuesday; she'd come by Tube, probably brought the magazine along to read, and then left it here by mistake.

Sherlock flips it open. Perfume advertisements; jewelry advertisements; cosmetics advertisements. Slick, glossy paper, all the better to objectify women with. He skims a write-in advice column, turns the page, and finds himself faced with what appears to be a quiz. At the top, in scrolling font meant to emulate a lady's handwriting, is the title: Are you really Just Friends?

Well, he really only has the one friend, and that's John. Sherlock reads the first question:

1. Do you crave his praise?

1. No way. What am I, his dog?


2. It's nice if I get it, but I don't lose sleep over it.


3. Of course! His opinion matters to me.


4. Sometimes I show off for him just to hear it, and he loves it.

Sherlock places a mental checkmark next to (d) and moves on.

2. Do you look for excuses to touch him?

1. No; we keep to our own personal space.


2. Not really, but I don't mind when we accidentally touch.


3. Sometimes I stand a little too close.


4. Do I really need to? We're always in each other's space.

D again.

3. Do you always want to borrow his things?

1. No. He doesn't have anything I want.


2. Occasionally, but I always ask first.


3. We loan each other CDs and movies all the time.


4. I just take what I need; he doesn't usually mind.

Sherlock is beginning to sense a pattern.

4. Do you get jealous, if you see him with another girl?

1. No. It's not like he needs my permission.


2. Not really, but I do wonder.


3. I want to physically drag him away.


4. I just go over and stand really close and let her know he's taken.

Really, they should mix up the answers now and again, just for variety's sake.

5. Do you think of him when you fall asleep at night/wake up in the morning?

1. No? That'd be weird.


2. Maybe if he's in a dream I had last night.


3. Sometimes I close my eyes and bring up his face as I fall asleep.


4. He's always on my mind.

According to the instructions at the end, each letter corresponds with a certain number of points. The d. answers all receive four points each. He's meant to add them together and find the corresponding paragraph that will tell him whether or not he and John are, in fact, just friends.

16-20 points: Honey, do you seriously think you're just friends? This is not how friends act. This is how deeply in love people act. Heck, you're practically already married, so just go shag him and get it over with. He's probably waiting for you to make a move!

Sherlock stares, snorts, and drops the magazine on the floor. Rubbish.

-----

But now there's new data, which is that, according to women's magazines, this is how people who are in love behave.

Well, how was Sherlock supposed to know that? He's never been in love before. He's never even really had a friend before, unless you count a skull, which most people don't. He doesn't read Mills & Boons novels and has only the faintest awareness of romantic films. He's never gone on dates, except by accident, and the few times he's had to feign romantic interest for a case it was all about that cock of the head and quirk of the lips, with no real attachment on his side. So, for all he knew, this was what friendship was like. He simply didn't have enough data.

Now he's grumpy. Sherlock Holmes doesn't like being wrong, even if it's through lack of knowledge. Especially if it's through lack of knowledge. Sherlock Holmes should know everything.

So he takes himself off to Waterstone's.

When John comes back from work that evening, it's to find Sherlock burrowed into the couch, bare feet tucked under the cushions, reading ferociously from a stack on the coffee table: Cosmopolitan magazine, Bridget Jones' Diary and its sequel, Finding Mr. Right, The Gay Kama Sutra, and various tabloids. Sherlock is currently frowning at Relationships for Dummies. There hadn't been a Love for Dummies. Apparently people don't need telling what love is. This is an unforgiveable oversight; he shall write to the publishers.

John raises his eyebrows. "What's all this, then?"

Sherlock hunches further into the couch and tries to project Go Away at John as loudly as possible. "Research."

"What, for a case?" John disappears into the kitchen, probably to look for dinner.

"A case, yes." He should probably warn John about the fetal pig in the refrigerator, but he's honestly too absorbed in this book. Maybe John will cook the fetal pig. That would be interesting.

John sighs; ah, he's found it, then. "Sherlock, I told you, the top shelf is for experiments."

"It wouldn't fit."

"Then that's a sign that you need to bin some of these other ones. Look, this one with the quail eggs has been here for ages."

"Mmmm," says Sherlock. He's gotten to Compromises.

-----

In the end, Sherlock is more confused than he was before. According to these sources, a key component of romantic love, attraction, whatever, is sexual attraction, and he’s quite certain he’s not sexually attracted to John. Then again, it’s not as if he has much experience in that area either, and attempts to research how can I tell when I am sexually attracted so someone? prove even more fruitless than how can I tell when I’m in love? Apparently it’s also one of those things he’s just supposed to know. Ugh.

Maybe the problem here is that most of his sources deal with the romantic love women have for men. But how could it be very different? Love is supposed to be some sort of universal constant. Perhaps he should have spent more time in the Gay Relationship Advice section, but it didn't seem very relevant. It's not as if he's gay, and he's fairly certain John isn't, either.

He takes everything back to Waterstone's and returns it. The cashier apologetically refuses the magazines, citing store policy, but cheerfully begins to scan the books back in. Sherlock leans against the counter, drumming his fingers frenetically against the faux wood.

"Having relationship troubles, are we?" the cashier says as she scans in Finding Mr. Right. She’s in her early thirties, single but in a long-term relationship, worked at Waterstone's at least three years, has two cats (one ginger and one tortoiseshell), votes Labour.

"Hardly," says Sherlock. "There's nothing wrong with our relationship. I'm only trying to define it."

"Oh." She frowns a little, sucks in her bottom lip briefly, then says, "Sorry, what’s that mean?"

"You know, I've changed my mind about the Gay Kama Sutra," says Sherlock.

He bins the magazines right outside the shop but keeps the book tucked under his arm all the way back to Baker Street. Once there, he leaves it in a prominent location on the kitchen table and opens the refrigerator. He bins everything on the top shelf, containers and all, and moves the fetal pig there. Then he ties up the bag, asks Mrs. Hudson for directions to the skip, and proudly takes out the rubbish, collecting several very interesting samples from said skip while he’s at it. Of these, he carefully places two on the top shelf and leaves the one likely to be damaged by the cold on the table, next to the rest of his experimental paraphernalia. Then he tucks himself into the armchair.

When John arrives home, Sherlock pretends not to be watching out of the corner of his eye as John makes a beeline for the refrigerator as usual.

"You tidied!" John's voice is all pure delight.

"Yes, well." Sherlock clears his throat. "Needed more space for experiments."

"You've never done that before." John shuts the refrigerator door and turns to look at Sherlock, hands on his hips. "All right, out with it."

"What?"

"You've done something," says John. "Or you want something. You never do anything without a reason, and this in particular was designed to get into my good graces. So out with it."

Sherlock twists round in the chair to face John across the back. "It was a compromise."

John's eyebrows hike up his forehead. "A compromise."

"Yes. People in relationships are supposed to compromise. In order to make the relationship work."

The lines on John's forehead smooth back down. "I see. Well. That's true." Now, as planned, his eyes fall on the book. It hasn't got a lurid pink cover or anything, but the words GAY KAMA SUTRA are very prominent on the cover. He frowns. "What's this?"

"A book," Sherlock supplies.

"Yes, I can see that. I think I saw this in your pile earlier. Where did the rest go?"

"I returned them. They were irrelevant." Sherlock turns the rest of him round on the chair so that he's perched on his toes on the cushion and leaning with his elbows on the back. "John, I think I might be in love with you."

"Ah," says John. He shuts his mouth with an audible click of his teeth, looks down at the book, then up somewhere towards the ceiling, then finally at Sherlock. "What led you to this conclusion?"

"There was a quiz in a magazine."

"A quiz. In a magazine." John pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. "I see. And it told you that you were in love with me?"

"Of course not." Sherlock glares at John. Honestly, he's not stupid. "But it suggested that I was missing some data. I've done a lot of research and it hasn't made me a great deal clearer on the subject. But it did suggest that communication was very important."

"Yes. Yes, it generally is." John sighs, mutters something that sounds like "can't be having this discussion on an empty stomach," but rounds the table to sit in the armchair opposite Sherlock. "All right. So, you've been researching whether or not you're in love with me. That's what those books were about."

Sherlock turns himself round in the chair again, so that he's facing John, and nods.

"And what, if anything, can I contribute?"

Sherlock takes a moment to ponder this. "Well, if you could actually clarify whether or not this is love, that would be helpful. Other than that, I'd like us to continue as we were."

John exhales. Sherlock has no idea what he's so tense about; after all, they're just having a conversation. "So you don't, say, want to put that book to any practical use."

"Not particularly. But I am. . . confused." Sherlock flexes his hands. "All the other traits of a romantic attraction appear to be present. What is it about sexual attraction that makes a romantic relationship somehow separate and exclusive?"

John opens his mouth, closes it, mulls for a moment with his eyebrows drawn down low over his forehead, and finally produces, "You know, I haven't the faintest. It's not something I've ever really thought about." He glances at Sherlock. "Perhaps it isn't, for you. You've always been a special case."

Sherlock is certain that he's just been insulted, but he's not quite sure how. He sinks lower in his chair. "This is driving me mad. None of it is quantifiable or logical."

"It's not meant to be, Sherlock. People wouldn't write poetry, wars wouldn't be fought, if love were scientific." John sighs and stands. He puts his hands in his pockets, takes them out again. He scrubs one hand through his hair. "For what it's worth, I do love you. You know." He stumbles just slightly over the l in love. Sherlock's read about the weight of that word. He didn't understand; it's just a word. But when John says it to him, like that, he feels just a little bit warmer, somewhere inside, perhaps near his small intestine.

"But how do you know?" he presses.

John sighs. "If I say it's based on evidence of the heart, will that be enough for you?"

But Sherlock doesn't have a heart. Oh, but he does. Yes, he does. "Oh."

"Yes." John smiles; the smile widens in a smug grin. "Not such an idiot now, am I?"

"Shut up," says Sherlock, but he's smiling as well. "All right, then. Do you love me platonically, or romantically?"

"Haven't the faintest," John replies readily enough. "You've got the whole thing mixed up in my head now."

"Excellent." Sherlock sits up in his chair. "Then we can discover it together."