Chapter Text
It was an unnaturally quiet Friday evening at 221b Baker Street. The November rain was ticking gently on the windows and the fragrant scent of crackling wood coming from the fireplace invaded the apartament - John had finally managed to convince Sherlock to light it up, despite numerous protests.
John was sitting on his chair, deeply immersed in the reading of a worn-out copy of "The Hobbit"... or at least he would have been, if it hadn't been for his lovely flatmate, who'd been shooting him dirty looks from his across the room all afternoon, making it difficult for him to concentrate.
"What?" John finally looked up from his book, only to find a very grumpy Sherlock sitting in front of him, completely wrapped in a weighted blanket and with a murderous look in his eyes.
John chuckled mentally. He would have looked adorable if he hadn't been... well, Sherlock.
"Oh, don't pretend that I've interrupted you. You stopped reading that stupid book about fortyfive minutes ago." the man spat venomously.
John had to bite his tongue to keep himself from responding in kind. Everytime he'd given in to the temptation he'd quickly regretted it; Sherlock might look like a cold-hearted arsehole when he was in one of his moods, but it was surprisingly easy to offend him and the last thing he wanted right now was a useless fight.
"What do you want?"
"Bored."
’What else is new?’ he thought bitterly.
"Why don't you, uhm... I dunno, compose a little?"
"Not in the right state of mind."
"I can call Molly if you want, see if she can get you something for your experiments. C’mon, a pair of eyeballs, a thumb, something."
"Bor-ing."
Sherlock closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the chair. This gave John a chance to observe him more closely, something he'd found himself doing way more often lately than he cared to admit.
There hadn't been a new case in almost a week and the detective had slowly started to let himself go: he looked thinner and paler than usual (which was saying something), his grey-ish blue eyes shadowed by two dark circles the size of a small stopwatch. Ever since the draught had begun he’d been barely sleeping, had stopped eating almost entirely and didn't even bother to get out of the house, much to John’s chagrin.
He sighed deeply.
"Well, do whatever you want, I'm-"
"Let me guess," Sherlock said sarcastically, snapping open his pale blue eyes. "You're going to see Sarah, or Olivia, or Charlotte and hope that if you complain about your crazy flatmate you'll get enough sympathy points and they'll let you sleep with them."
The blond paused, taken aback. The way things were going, either there would be an insteresting murder within the next few days or John would be the one to commit it.
"What I was going to say," he said slowly, getting up from his chair and slamming the book on the coffee table. “is that I’m going to get a glass of wine. If I have to listen to you whining all night I wanna at least be a little bit tipsy.”
Sherlock ignored him and wrapped himself in the blanket more tightly.
A couple of minutes later John came back from the kitchen, holding a bright yellow ceramic mug decorated by an aggressively cheerful inspiring phrase - a gift from Harry, God only knew why - filled with wine. Not particularly fitting, but it would have to do.
He found that Sherlock had discarded the comforter, which now lay at his feet, and had resorted to expressing his discontent by tapping his foot so quickly and with such intensity that John had worried it might fall off.
“Nice glass.” he observed sarcastically, shooting the hideous mug a meaningful look.
“Well, you know how it is, my roommate is a psychopath who decided to fill our only glasses with what seems like blood for no apparent reason.”
“Actually, it’s for—“
John sighed as he sat back on his chair.
“Don’t tell me. I don’t wanna know what you were planning to do with it. Or where you got it. Let’s just find you something to do so I can get back to my book, okay?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“Fine.”
“Any suggestions?”
“What about—“
”No, we’re not playing Clue.” John interrupted him curtly.
”Why not? It’s fun!”
“To you maybe it’s fun, to me it’s a nightmare. You get way too into it and you refuse to play by the rules. Need I remind you that the last time we played it you got so frustrated you smashed one of Mrs. Hudson’s teacups against the wall?”
“That’s because the rules are wrong! I’s physically impossible for Mrs. White to be both in the study and in the hall.”
“For the last time, you can’t argue with a boardgame— you know what, I‘m not having this discussion again.”
“What do you suggest, then, since you’re so smart?!” Sherlock snapped.
John took a sip and thought about it for a moment.
That was a good question. What did he suggest? He quickly sifted through Sherlock’s favorite activities: annoying him, being an arrogant git, occasionally texting The Woman. None of those counted as real hobbies, though.
“Have you ever heard of the 36 questions?”
Sherlock arched a skeptical eyebrow.
“The ones that are supposed to make you fall in love?”
“It’s not all they do!” John hurried to specify, defensively. “Technically, they were made to ‘create a sense of intimacy between strangers’.”
”We’re not strangers.” objected Sherlock, who looked at best perplexed by the suggestion.
‘Perplexed is good’ thought John, ‘I can work with perplexed’.
”Well, if you have another brilliant idea besides playing Clue, I’m all ears.”
Sherlock fell silent for a few uncomfortable minutes; John could basically hear the sound of the wheels turning inside his head, pondering, reflecting.
Eventually he sighed and raised his hands in defeat.
“Fine, you win. So how does this work?”
“I think we’re supposed to take turns answering each question with complete honesty, and then stare at each other for four minutes.” he explained, before hurriedly adding: “We don’t have to do the last part, though.”
He wasn’t sure why, but he felt the warm blood rush to his cheeks at the thought of looking into his roommate’s piercing blue eyes for more than a few seconds.
Sherlock looked at him with an indecipherable expression on his face that made him blush even more.
‘God damn it, Watson, pull yourself together! You’re a bloody veteran, not a victorian heroine!”
”What are you staring at me for?”
Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead he joined his hands like he often did during one of his cases and graced him with a hint of a smile - or rather, a smirk - for the first time in days.
“Let’s do this then. You start.”
“Fine, let me just look them up— Okay, question one: given the choice of anyone in the world, who would you want as a dinner guest and why?“
“I don’t have dinner guests.” he pointed out.
“Try to imagine it. It’s hypothetical.” explained John, already beginning to wonder wether it had been a good idea.
“Does it have to be a real person?”
“You know, it’s gonna take all night if you’re going to be so technical with every question.”
“Fine, I’d pick Agatha Christie so that I can explain to her why most of her books are ridiculously unrealistic. Especially ‘And then there were none’ - God, I hate ‘And then there were none’!”
John snorted. “You could choose any human being in the universe and you landed on Agatha Christie?”
”Does that surprise you?”
“No, it’s very you.”
“What about you, who’d you choose?”
“My father, probably. I barely remember him, so it would be cool to have dinner with him at least once. It’s either him or Tolkien, anyways - he’s my favourite author.”
Sherlock glanced at the worn copy of The Hobbit still sitting on the coffee table with a small smile on the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah, I can see that.”
John handed him the phone and took a sip of wine.
”It’s your turn to ask.”
“Oh, right.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Would you like to be famous? In what way? Well, that’s an easy one.”
”What do you mean?”
”You’re already famous.”
“No, you’re famous. I’m just Sherlock Holmes’ companion. ‘Bachelor John Watson’, they call me.”
“It suits you.” joked Sherlock.
John snickered. He still hadn’t quite grown used to Sherlock’s sudden mood swings, but for once he was relieved that they existed. He wasn’t sure how much longer he would have been able to endure grumpy-Sherlock.
“For the record, I wouldn’t want to be famous for any reason. I’ve seen how the media treats you, I think I’m good. How about you, do you like being Sherlock Holmes, the detective with the funny hat?”
Now it was Sherlock’s turn to laugh.
“No, not really. Though I suppose it brings us clients, which makes it almost worth it. Your turn.”
“Before making a telephone call, do youever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?”
”What kind of question is that?”
John smiled patiently. “Just answer it, okay?”
“Fine. Sometimes.”
The blond’s eyes widened in disbelief.
”You do? I could have sworn you would have answered no.”
“Well, seems like I still manage to surprise you even after all these years.” Sherlock replied swiftly, seemingly not all that keen on continuing that particular discussion. “How about-“
”Hey, don’t you try and change the subject! You still have to answer the rest of the question.”
“Do I, though?”
”Definitely.”
Sherlock stared at the other for what seemed like forever before sighing and giving him a resigned look.
“Okay, but before I answer I want some wine too. It’s not fair that only one of us gets to be tipsy.”
“Fair enough. Go on, then.”
“I only do it when I phone my parents.” he explained as he poured a generous amount of wine into a wonky ceramic cup his mother had gifted him a few Christmases before, after taking a pottery class. “I don’t want them to worry, you know, so sometimes I rehearse what I’m going to say in order to sound... well, sober. Or I used to, anyways. Not anymore.”
“Oh, Christ.” was the only thing John could think of to say. Not particularly comforting. Not particularly original either. “Sorry about that, mate.”
Sherlock’s brow furrowed.
“Why would you be sorry, you’re not the one to blame for this. If anything, I should be sorry. I’m the junkie, remember?”
”Right.”
Again, silence fell in the small room, interrupted only by the light sound of the rain ticking against the glass of their windows.
“Do you?” finally asked Sherlock, who seemed to have had more than enough of it. For someone who spent most of his time ignoring other people he could sometimes find awkward silences surprisingly difficult to bear, especially those between him and John.
“Do I what?”
”Do you ever rehearse what you’re going to say before making a phonecall?”
”Er, no.”
Sherlock took a sip of wine and scanned the bright screen of John’s phone in search of the next question. “What would constitute a perfect day for you?”
“Uhm, try and guess.”
“That’s not in the rules.” he pointed out.
”We’re not strangers or potential partners either, I thought at this point we’d stopped worrying about breaking the rules.”
Sherlock looked amused.
“I have to say, I like this rebellious side of you, John.”
“Oh, sod off.” John replied quietly as his face rapidly turned crimson.
“I truly do!”
“Do you mind staying on topic?” he asked, heaving an exasperated sigh.
“Right. Hmm... let’s see, your perfect day. Well; no work, for starters.”
“That’s a given.”
”A stroll around the centre of London. No cases, no murders, no hurry, just walking around the city.”
”You got that bit right. Then what?”
“A good steak, a couple of pints at the local pub and then back home reading in front of the fireplace. Kind of like today, minus the crazy flatmate.”
“Hey,” said John. “I just happen to like my crazy flatmate, thank you very much.”
Sherlock gave him a grateful smile. “So, have I guessed correctly?”
“Surprisingly, yes.”
“Surprisingly?” He raised a perfect eyebrow. “I’m offended.”
“You know what I mean.” John sighed. “You got it right down to the last detail... I just didn’t know I was that predictable, that’s all.”
“Everyone is that predictable to me. It’s kind of my whole deal, if you remember.”
“Yeah, right, how could I forget. The greatest private detective in the whole world.” John muttered mockingly.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing!” he answered more loudly.
If Sherlock had heard him, he seemed to decide to let it go.
“What about me?”
John thought about it for a few seconds. Sherlock’s favourite things could be counted on the fingers of one hand: interesting cases, scolding hot tea, showing off, gloomy experiments, irritating his brother. And getting high, of course, but John preferred not to think about that.
“It’d probably start with a murder, knowing you. Spending all day examining evidence and chasing the murderer, then letting Lestrade arrest them while we have a celebratory dinner at Angelo’s.”
Sherlock heaved a pensive sigh.
“You don’t know what I’d give for a case like that right now.” He poured some more wine into his mug, then raised it. “To a new damn case before I go completely mad!”
John clinked his own, half-empty mug with the other’s.
“That, I can toast to. Cheers!”
They both drank avidly and for a while they kept quiet, enjoying the warm sensation of the alcohol spreading in their chests.
”Whose turn is it?” asked John after a few seconds of silence.
“I think yours.”
“Right, let’s see...” he looked at his phone. “When did you last sing to yourself?”
Sherlock thought about it for a few seconds. “Uhm, I don’t remember.”
“Liar.”
“How dare you?” the detective exclaimed drammatically, looking insulted at the mere accusation that he hadn’t been truthful.
“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, do you honestly believe that after all these years I still can’t tell when you’re lying to me?”
Sherlock stared at him for a couple of seconds, looking like a deer caught in the headlights, before sighing in resignation.
”Fine, you win.” he conceded eventually. “It was this morning under the shower - Anarchy in the UK, if you really must know.”
John chuckled. “I had no idea you were a fan of the Sex Pistols.”
“Yeah, well, keep your comments to yourself, thank you very much.”
“For the record my last time was humming Don’t Go Breaking My Heart yesterday while I was cooking.”
Sherlock snorted.
“Elton John? Really?”
”What’s wrong with Elton John?”
“Nothing, I just always pictured you listening to something more ‘manly’. You know, Metallica, Black Sabbath, stuff like that. Something one would expect a war veteran to listen to.”
”I don’t like whatever you’re trying to insinuate.” John mumbled grumpily.
He went to pour himself some more wine and was disappointed to find that the bottle was almost empty. “It’s your turn, by the way.”
“If you were able to live to the age of ninety and retain either the mind or body of a thirty-years-old for the last sixty years of your life, which would you want?”
“That’s easy, body.”
Sherlock winced and looked at John as if he had just admitted to beating up the elderly.
“Body?! Why on earth would you choose that?”
”Hey, I have no idea what I’ll look like when I’m ninety. Besides, I like how I look right now, I wouldn’t mind being like this for the rest of my life.”
“I can’t believe you would be so superficial, John. I know your brain may not seem like much compared to mine, but still—“
“Excuse me?”
Fortunately Sherlock seemed to get the message and he quicky lowered his gaze.
”Too much?”
”A bit, yeah.”
”Sorry about that.”
John looked up to his roommate, surprised. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d genuinely apologized to him. For anyone else it would have been the bare minimum, of course, but for Sherlock it was a huge improvement.
“For the record, I like your body. I just like your mind better.”
John blushed and glanced helplessly around, doing his best to ignore the impact that the words ‘I like your body’ were having on his sanity.
He cleared his throat.
”Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?”
Sherlock seemed to ponder his answer for a moment.
“Not really. I mean, I assume I’ll die of violent death - loads of people don’t like me - but who’s to say. What about you?”
”I definitely thought I did back in Afghanistan. Hell, I was sure I wasn’t going to come back alive. Now, I don’t know anymore. You’ll probably end up poisoning me with one of your attempts at cooking.” he answered in a half-joking tone.
”Trust me, if I wanted to poison you, you would have been dead already. Slipping stuff into your food is worryingly easy.” he briefly paused when he saw the dirty look John was aiming at him. “Not that I would know from experience, of course.”
“Of course.” repeated John, amused.
Sherlock cleared his throat and tried to change the subject.
“If you could wake up tomorrow having gained any one ability, what would it be?”
John bit his lip thoughtfully.
“I think... I think I wouldn’t mind waking up with your powers of deduction.” he said, after a moment of consideration.
Sherlock tilted his head slightly, surprised. He hadn’t anticipated such an answer.
”Why would you want that?”
‘“I dunno.” he shrugged. “It’d be fun to see the world the way you see it. Plus, I wouldn’t look like a complete idiot when we’re together on the crime scene.”
He emptied his mug, hoping that Sherlock would blame the alcohol for his reddened cheeks.
“Just because you talents lie elsewhere, it doesn’t mean—“
“Yeah, yeah, I know. How about you, what ability would you want?”
“I can’t think of one. I have everything I need.” he replied bluntly.
John, however, wasn’t going to let him get away with it that easily.
“That’s not a real answer and you know it.” he said in a tone similar to the one a mother would use to scold her disobedient child.
Sherlock crossed his arms.
”What do you expect me to say?”
The blond didn’t answer, he simply kept staring at him expectantly.
“Fine.” Sherlock conceded after a few seconds. “I’d like to understand people.”
“But you do understand them.” objected John. “Someone could argue that that’s what makes you a great detective.”
“That someone would be an idiot. I can recognize their thoughts and feelings using the science of deduction, but that doesn’t mean I understand them... and that’s why I need you.”
He spoke quietly, barely loud enough for John to hear, his iridescent blue eyes fixed on the parquet.
“Well, it’s always nice to feel needed.” John commented, in an effort to try and lighten up the tone of the conversation.
”I believe I’ve told you before, I’d be lost without my blogger.”
John grinned, grateful. He cleared his throat.
”Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common.”
Sherlock smiled enigmatically and emptied his mug, the red liquid dripping refreshingly down his throat. “You first.”
John frowned. “Why? It’s your turn.”
“I’m curious of your answers, and I don’t want you to copy mine.”
“Bit childish, don’t you think?” he observed.
”Maybe. Do it anyways.”
John shrugged and gave him the patient look one would give a stubborn child, as if to say ‘it’s your game’.
“Okay, let’s see... we’re both adult men. We were both born in the UK-“
“No, not like that.” Sherlock leaned forward until there were only a handful of centimeters between their faces.
“They’re all facts, and they’re all true. I don’t understand what you want from me.” said John. He was still staring into Sherlock’s pale blue eyes, unwilling to be the first to break eye contact.
“Yeah, but anyone could have said that. I want to hear your answers.”
John sighed and tilted his head slightly.
“Fine. Your way. Always your way.”
A shadow of a smile brightened Sherlock’s face, for just a second, before disappearing.
”Let’s see... we both tip more than fifteen percent when we eat out. We both enjoy solving crimes-“
“You enjoy watching me solve them.” Sherlock corrected him.
“Still counts. We both have complicated relationships with our siblings. Your turn.”
“We both love London. We both enjoy helping people—”
John’s brow furrowed.
”Do you? I mean, you solve crimes, but you don’t do it to help others.”
”Doesn’t mean it’s not an added value.”
John opened his mouth to raise an objection, but thought better of it at the last second.
“Fine, I’m gonna let it slide.”
“And we’re both lonely.”
John frowned, taken aback.
“I’m not lonely.”
Sherlock raised both hands in surrender.
“Okay, if you say so.”
“I’m not— Sherlock, I- I’m not lonely!”
The detective jumped to his feet and started pacing restlessly, his long slim legs crossing the small room in just a couple of steps.
“You can keep repeating it all you want, it won’t make it any less true.”
“I have you, I have...”
Sherlock arched an eyebrow and glanced at him, waiting for him to go on.
John bit his lip. Who else? He found it hard to admit, but it was as if his whole life had started with Sherlock. His friends, his job, even his house. He had no family and, apart from Mike Stamford, with whom he met once every two or three months for some catching up, no real friends of his own.
“Okay, point sort-of-taken.” he admitted with a sigh. “But that doesn’t mean I feel lonely.”
”Good.” Sherlock fell heavily onto his armchair. “Me neither.”
He smiled and John couldn’t help but grin in return. Many things could be said about Sherlock Holmes - he was annoying, arrogant and often rude - but no one could deny that he had the kind of smile that can easily light up a room.
“Do we have anything stronger than wine?” he asked, gesturing to the empty bottle sitting on the coffee table along with the two mugs.
“On a weeknight? I’m shocked that you would even suggest that, Watson.” Sherlock exclaimed in a mock-outraged tone.
“Oh, come on! It’s not like either of us has a normal job. Besides, there are no cases anyways, we might as well take advantage of it.”
“Good point.” he replied - though something about him seemed distant, as though lost in thoughts far more important and complex than their silly little questions. He wasn’t quite looking at him, more like right past him, at the bright green walls of the kitchen.
John cleared his throat in an attempt to draw his attention.
“...so?”
Sherlock didn’t answer, eyes still fixed somewhere between John’s chair and the fridge.
John crossed his arms.
”You know, I can tell when you’re not listening to me. Need I remind you that I’m doing this for you? I can just get back to my book if that’s what you want—“
“No, no. Sorry.” Sherlock turned his head towards John and for a moment their eyes met mid-air. “I was just... thinking.”
“About what?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he teased him, grinning lightly.
Despite his best intentions to stay mad at him, John felt his lips curl into a reluctant smile as soon as he looked across the room to his flatmate, whose eyes were twinkling with amusement.
“Uhm, so what do you say?” he tried again. “I’m not asking a third time.”
”I’m not entirely convinced. I’m not really a fan of spirits. As you know I prefer other... recreational substances.”
“Come on, it’ll be fun!” he insisted, anxious for an escape to the terrible mundanity of Sherlock’s bad days. “We can turn it into a drinking game, or something.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
”A drinking game? And what would the rules be, may I ask?”
John pondered his answer for a while.
“Uhm, how about we keep asking the questions like we have up until now and either we answer or we drink?”
“I guess it’s... acceptable. But how does one win?”
John blinked, confused. “Win what?”
Sherlock looked at him like he was the most obtuse creature on the planet.
”The game, John.” he explained, impatiently. “How does one win the game?”
”Oh, right.” He didn’t know how to explain it to him that the point of drinking games isn’t really to win as much as it is to get utterly and completely smashed; instead, he settled on a half-joking answer that wasn’t that far fom the truth.
“Er, I don’t know. The first one to text an ex-girlfriend loses?”
He froze. Was girlfriend even the right word? He quickly looked up to Sherlock, searching his festures for the barest clue as to exactly how far off he was. He found nothing.
The detective didn’t react. He seemed neither particularly amused nor particularly offended; he just kept staring back at him unaffectedly, wearing his usual hard-to-decipher expression.
“I mean, girlfriend, boyfriend, whatever.” John tried to correct himself. (‘Wow, John that was real smooth.’)
“Nevermind that, it was a joke. So what do you say?”
Sherlock stayed silent for a few seconds. John could see from his darting eyes that he was weighing pros and cons, though he himself had no idea why a decision as simple as getting hammered required such scrupulous consideration.
“We can use the bottle of gin you keep hidden in your closet.” he said, finally looking up to his flatmate.
John decided that there was no point in even asking how on earth he knew that.
”Oh, don’t make that face.” said Sherlock, as if he’d read his mind. “Certainly it’s not news to you that I randomly check through your room.”
“I believe the right word would be snooping around.” grumbled John in response. He stood up to go get the gin, and he was already halfway up the stairs when he turned around, eyes widened in sudden realization. “Wait, does that mean you found…”
“Yep, all of them.” confirmed Sherlock. “Magazines are a bit old fashioned, if you ask me. You do know that there’s the internet for all that, right?”
John opened his mouth, then closed it, at a loss for words.
”You should really try finding a better hiding place.” said the detective nonchalantly.
“Oi, I didn’t think I’d have someone looking through my stuff!” John protested, wagging an accusatory finger. “You know, for anyone else this would be enough to move out.”
Although to be fair, he thought, most of the things Sherlock did would be an immediate red flag for any normal person. Luckily for him, John Watson wasn’t exactly what could be defined as a ‘normal person’.
“Are you planning on moving out?” Sherlock asked calmly.
“No.”
“Good. You should get on with the gin, then.”
“I hate you.” mumbled John, resuming his climb of the stairs.
“No you don’t.” Sherlock replied from his chair, a small smile in the corner of his mouth.
Despite himself, John found himself smiling as he entered his bedroom and collected a dusty bottle of gin from his closet.
No, he didn’t.
He guessed he should have seen it coming. There was no keeping secrets with Sherlock. To be perfectly honest, he wasn’t even sure why he wanted to keep it a secret in the first place. After all, they were both adult men, and surely even Sherlock could… relate. Couldn’t he?
“John! Are you done?” called a voice from the living room, interrupting his train of thought.
“Yes, yes, I’m coming down.” he replied. When he returned downstairs he was surprised to find that Sherlock wasn’t sitting on his usual chair, and was instead standing in front of the the fridge.
“Uhm, what are you doing?” asked John gingerly, making his way to the kitchen.
Sherlock turned around. He was holding a bunch of limes and a clear plastic bottle labeled ‘tonic water’.
“Oh, John, just in time. Do we have a juicer?”
John blinked twice, astonished by the scene taking place in front of him.
“If we have… I’m sorry, what?!”
Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. “A juicer, John. A squeezer, however you want to call it.”
“I don’t know, have you tried the cupboard?”
Sherlock snapped his fingers and headed towards the cabinet. “Right! Cupboard, cupboard… oh, there it is.” He re-emerged with an old metallic juicer in his hands.
“Care to explain what you need that for?” John finally managed to ask.
Sherlock turned his head towards him. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m making cocktails. Now, pass me the gin.”
John fought a snicker as he handed him the bottle. “Cocktails. Right. Thirty minutes ago you were sulking on your chair, refusing to eat, and now you’re making cocktails.”
Sherlock scoffed. “Well, we can’t do shots, can we? We don’t have the right glasses.”
John couldn’t think of an answer, so he simply stood under the kitchen doorframe and watched as his sociopathic flatmate frantically tinkered with the limes in an effort to prepare two gin and tonics. Once he was done, a few minutes later, the detective topped them with two straws and gracefully placed them on the coffee table. Then he turned towards John with a proud look on his face.
“Ta da!”
“You washed the glasses.” John looked first at the drinks, then at Sherlock, incredulous. “What about your experiment, with the blood? It sounded important.”
“It wasn’t.” Sherlock shrugged. “I was just trying to pass the time. And now I’ve found a better way.”
“You’re referring to the thirty-six questions, yes?”
“Of course.” he replied, “What else would I be talking about?”
“Nothing.” murmured John.
He still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that Sherlock had both apologized to him and done something thoughtful on the same day. Maybe he hadn’t been giving him enough credit, he thought.
“Before we continue, I’d like to make a toast.” announced Sherlock, falling heavily onto his chair and raising a glass. “To me.”
Maybe not.
“You want to toast to yourself?” John suppressed a smile.
“Yes, why not?” asked Sherlock, who didn’t look like he was joking at all.
“Well… people don’t usually do that.”
“I was having a bad day and now I’m not anymore.” he explained. “To that.”
John would have liked to remind him that he was mostly the one to thank for his suddenly pleasant evening, but he didn’t say any of that. Instead, he clinked his glass with the other’s. “Cheers!”
“Cheers.” repeated Sherlock.
John took a little sip from his glass. “It’s… good.”
“You sound surprised.”
“No, it’s just that… it’s a regular gin and tonic.”
”Well, yeah, what else did you expect?” Sherlock was eyeing him curiously.
“I dunno, I can’t remember the last time you—” Suddenly, his eyes snapped open in realization. “Oh God. You slipped something into this, didn’t you?”
“What? No.” replied Sherlock unconvincingly.
“Of course, it makes sense!”
“I’m offended that you would even suggest—“
“Don’t play innocent, Holmes, I know you’d go to any length just to prove a point.”
“Fine.” Sherlock grabbed John’s G&T from his hand and took a sip from it. “See? Completely safe.” he said, and put it back on the coffee table.
“Okay,” admitted John, raising his hands in surrender. “I misjudged you.”
“Now if you’re done accusing me of drugging you-“
“A perfectly reasonable conclusion, given the cricumstances.” he interjected.
Sherlock glowered at him before continuing. “-I propose we go back to the questions.”
“Fine. You first.”
He cleared his throat and glanced at John’s phone. “For what in your life do you feel most grateful?” he read.
John took a moment of consideration before answering.
“Well, there are a lot of things. Surviving Afghanistan is probably somewhere around the top of that list. But I think most of all I’m grateful for having met you.”
”Me?”
John shifted uncomfortably on his seat.
“Well, all of you.” he specified hurriedly. “You, Molly, Greg, Mike. My friends. I would be nowhere without you.”
Sherlock smiled briefly. “Well, that’s… good.”
“Yeah. It’s good.” John smiled in return. “What about you, what are you most grateful for?”
”Probably my work.” replied Sherlock. “Before it I didn’t have a real direction in life and it gave me a purpose. It quite litterally saved my life, more than once.”
‘So did I.’ thought John bitterly, but didn’t say anything. Deep inside, he knew that he had no right to be jealous. There was only place in Sherlock’s heart for one thing, his work; he’d told him that the first night they’d met. Still, it wasn’t so bad. Being second place had its perks, and even a fraction of Sherlock’s affection was better than all of someone else’s.
“John? You alright? You look distracted.”
“Look who’s talking!” he retorted, before grabbing the phone and looking up the next question. “If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?”
Sherlock took a sip of his cocktail before answering, and John found himself following the man bring the tip of the straw to his lips with more attention than he would have liked to admit. It must be because of all that wine, he thought, for sure.
“My parents…” he begun, cautiously. “Well, I don’t think I’m in any position to judge them. They tried their best under very peculiar circumstances.”
John nodded, waiting for him to go on.
“I was never an easy child, you know” he continued after a moment of hesitation, “And to be honest neither was Mycroft. We were lonely and resentful. We couldn’t connect with other children, no matter how hard he tried.”
John thought of young Sherlock, a small child with a head of unruly black hair tousled by the wind, asking his mother questions she didn’t have the answer to. So lonely, so frustrated. He would have liked to give him a hug.
“What about you?”
“Kind of the same.” he answered with a shrug. “I mean, my circumstances were less… unusual, but I can’t imagine it must have been easy for my mother to raise two kids on her own. There are so many things she could have done better, but to be honest… I don’t think I could have done it any differently.” He lowered his gaze, hands twisting nervously around his glass. “I think that’s part of why I’m so terrified of ever becoming a parent.” he said. “There is so much you can do wrong.”
Sherlock smiled softly. “For the record, I think you would make an excellent father.”
John returned his smile. “You think?”
“Just look at the prime example!” He gestured at himself. “You took a man throwing a temper tantrum and transformed it into a pleasant night for the both of us.”
“By convincing you to get drunk.” he pointed out.
”Yeah, maybe don’t try that part on a child.”
John threw back his head and let out a loud, roaring laugh. Even Sherlock chuckled softly; John noticed that when he laughed his face lighted up like a Christmas tree and small wrinkles formed at the corner of his eyes.
Sherlock sat up straighter and glanced at John’s phone. “Oh, this should be an interesting one.”
”What is it?”
“Take four minutes and tell your partner your life story in as much detail as possible.” he read.
”Oi, how am I supposed to-“ protested John.
“I’m starting the clock.”
“Okay, fine, just let me-“ He tilted his head slightly. The story of his life in four minutes. He could do it.
He started with his childhood: a normal, uninteresting childhood, spent largely in front of the TV or playing football with the lads. Then he got to his father’s death.
“I don’t remember it, really, I was five or six. A car accident, while he was getting back home from work. After that, it all came crashing down.”
His mother had struggled to move on, and she’d quickly become nothing more than a washed-out version of the woman she’d once been, the woman he remembered. He couldn’t stand to see her like that. He’d pushed on, and as soon as he’d graduated from high school he’d moved out, finished his studies and then enlisted in the army.
“Were you happy there?” asked Sherlock mildly.
John thought about it for a few seconds. “Yes, I think so. Well, as happy as one can be in a situation like that. It was hard, but the routine was good for me.”
That was, until he’d gotten shot. He recounted it vividly: the excruciating pain to his shoulder, the honorable discharge, the rehabilitation. Sherlock listened to it all without interrupting, occasionally nodding.
“That was when I met you.” A striking man in an obituary. He smiled at the memory. “I think you know the rest.” he concluded.
“I do.”
”How long was I talking?”
Sherlock checked his watch. “About four minutes forty-five seconds.”
“Then it’s your turn now, yes?”
“Yep.” he confirmed.
Sherlock was briefer, more methodic. He quickly sifted through his childhood, the rainy afternoons spent within the walls of their parents’ cottage in the countryside, then his college years, where he was surrounded by people who didn’t understand him and saw him as nothing more than a freak show. His first case, the day he’d met Lestrade. Then their first meeting.
”I couldn’t believe my luck.” he said, twitching a smile. “You were the perfect flatmate under every aspect.”
”Yeah, it was one hell of a coincidence.” said John light-heartedly.
“I suppose.” murmured Sherlock thoughtfully. “Although you know what I think of coincidences.”
John turned his head towards him, incredulous. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes, are you suggesting that you believe in destiny?!”
“What? No.” he replied, defensively. Then he conceded: “Okay, maybe. I mean, if I have to believe in something, better this than the horoscope.”
“Spoken like a true Capricorn.”
Sherlock snickered and took another sip of his G&T.
John glanced outside the window. The last traces of the shimmering dusk were long gone now, leaving behind a dark and starless night lit only by the thousands of lights of the city skyline. Well, he thought, that was what you got for living in a big city like London.
He checked his phone in search of the next question, number thirteen, and realized that according to the site they’d completed the first round.
’Well, this calls for celebration’, he thought. ‘Fuck it, why not?’
He poured two shots of gin in their now empty mugs and handed one to the other. Sherlock Holmes was going to do a shot with him, wether he liked it or not.
“I propose another toast.” he announced solemnly.
”To what?” questioned the detective, inspecting the clear liquid warily.
“To having completed the first set of the questions. Twelve done, twenty-four more to go. Cheers!”
After a moment of hesitation, Sherlock clinked his mug with John’s. “Cheers.”
They both kept quiet for a while, enjoying the burning sensation of the alcohol spreading in their chests.
“Wow, I hadn’t done a proper shot in like forever. Takes me back to the college days.”
Sherlock had a disgusted grimace painted on his face. “Ugh, gin.” he lamented. “I’d forgotten how disgusting it is on its own.” He put down his mug on the coffee table and stared at it for a few seconds before continuing. “So, what now?” he pondered.
“Uhm, we could take a break.” John jumped to his feet. “You hungry?”
”I could eat.” replied Sherlock in an admirable attempt to sound casual. John knew he must had been starving. He hadn’t eaten anything in like three days. To think of it, he hadn’t had dinner yet either.
“Let’s see what we have.” he said, opening the fridge. The inside of it, as it is the case for most single men sharing an apartment, was a scene of desolation. “Mayonnaise, some lettuce, a thumb. More gin and tonics…”
“Yeah, I was a bit overzealous with the limes.” admitted Sherlock.
“Some strawberry jam, a carton of spoiled milk, some sinister looking yogurt and… i think that’s it.”
Not much to work with. He made a mental note to pick up something from the supermarket the following day.
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Takeaway?” he suggested.
”Yeah, probably a good idea.” he replied. “But when we come back we better start playing for real. We still haven’t made much use of the rules we estabilished.”
”Agreed.” Sherlock said with a nod.
”Just let me take my coat and I’m good to go.” John said, already clambering upstairs.
“I’ll call a cab.” replied the detective’s deep baritone.
John’s lips curled into a smile as he entered his room and grabbed his black wool coat, which was resting on the back of his chair.
It was going to be one hell of a night.