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John was lying on the couch, head nearest the window end to catch the light and his feet propped facing the living room door, making the most of a few hours of solitude in the flat to indulge in some private reading time. When Sherlock was home, he tended both to monopolise the couch space and constantly interrupt John any time he picked up a book, usually to deride his choice of reading matter and tell him how the story ended -- sometimes in the same breath. This was a rare opportunity to enjoy both without interference, and John was making the most of it.
The door downstairs banged and John jumped guiltily -- Sherlock was home earlier than expected. He moved reflexively to hide the incriminating book before remembering the subterfuge he had planned earlier, and placed the volume face down on his chest instead, glancing up just as Sherlock, taking the stairs two at a time, entered in his usual whirlwind fashion.
"That was quick," John remarked, endeavouring to sound casual. Generally, when engaged in experiments at St Bart's, Sherlock would be occupied for several hours, accepting coffee absentmindedly when Molly came in to offer a cup but otherwise ignoring his (and John's) other needs such as food and sleep. He had said, leaving the flat just before noon, that he would be a few hours; John hadn't expected him until dinner time and yet it was barely half-three and here he was.
"I got bored," replied Sherlock. For a moment, he wore an uncharacteristically soft look as he regarded John lying on the sofa; as he moved closer and saw the book John had been reading, it changed to a mischievous expression. He glanced over to the far corner of the room, one corner of his mouth quirking and an eyebrow ever-so-slightly raised, then flopped suddenly onto the end of the couch, heedless of John's feet in the way.
"Bored, at the morgue, with all those corpses to entertain you?" John's words came out a bit squashed, as Sherlock had now proceeded to turn round and crawl the rest of the way onto the couch to sprawl on top of him, long legs insinuating themselves between and around his at improbable angles, head resting in the crook of John's left underarm, pressed against the couch's cushioned back.
Sherlock's voice was muffled in John's armpit as he complained, "I forgot to take the skull and there was nobody there to talk to."
"Oh, I see." John hid a grin. Sherlock would never admit to missing him when he wasn't there, but his early return and what was for him an unusually explicit manifestation of physical affection told John all he really needed to know.
"What's this, then?" Sherlock jerked his chin at the book resting on John's chest.
John peered at it, slightly surprised. It was unlike Sherlock to ask obvious questions. "Um… just a new mystery novel I picked up; Laurie King -- a reader of my blog suggested I should try her books." He braced himself for a scathing comment but instead Sherlock seemed to mull this over for a moment.
"Hmm."
"Not going to guess whodunnit based on the author's photo and the state of the dust jacket, then?" John ventured to tease, holding the book firmly to his chest.
"John. You know I never guess." The mock sternness of Sherlock's tone was belied by the amusement in his eyes. "In this case, I won't endeavour to judge the book by its cover. In fact… why don't you read some of it out to me? That would give me more to go on."
John's eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline. This was certainly not the way he had expected things to go. Perhaps he should just have hidden the book after all. Stalling to give himself time to think, he prevaricated. "Ah, um… I, ah, don't know, Sherlock. I'm right in the middle, it won't make any sense if I just start reading. And this is part of a series, so really you need to start at the first book. Maybe, um, I should go and get the first one, and we can read it togeth--"
He was cut off by an imperious wave of a long-fingered hand. "I'm sure I'll be able to figure it out quickly enough, John. And besides, I'm comfortable here." Sherlock gave a wriggle to emphasise this, wrapping John's left arm more tightly over him and working a hand underneath John's torso so that they were snuggled even closer together.
Clearly that tactic wasn't going to work; John tried another. "I, er, haven't read aloud since school; I'm very out of practice."
The pitying look Sherlock gave him was no less clear for being felt through his armpit rather than seen. "I know I call you an idiot from time to time, but I'm sure you're still functionally literate."
"And, um, my throat was feeling sore earlier, I'm not sure if my voice is up to it."
Sherlock twisted around so he could look directly at John. "Well, I suppose I could always just read it myself then." He made as if to grab the book but John, reacting swiftly, clamped down his right hand on top of it.
"No! I mean -- no, it's fine, of course I'll read to you if you want, it's just… not something you've ever asked for before."
Sherlock's face assumed an injured expression. "I read an article in Cosmopolitan that suggested reading out loud to each other as a way of spending quality time as a couple. I thought it would be a nice idea, that's all."
John looked at him with suspicion but almost immediately felt bad for doing so. The look on Sherlock's face seemed merely disappointed, rather than the wide-eyed too-innocent gaze that he put on to convince others. He sighed and shook his head slightly, bringing his hand up to pet Sherlock's curls. "What were you doing reading Cosmo anyway? That tripe is intended for teenage girls and repressed housewives and it does them no good either."
"It was for a case." Sherlock's eyes had closed in apparent pleasure and he tilted his head into John's touch. "Now are you going to read to me or do I have to find some other way to alleviate the tedium of existence?"
Biting his lip, John slid the book carefully up his chest, keeping it turned towards him. He hesitated slightly, thinking, and began.
"Mary--" (that was the name, wasn't it?) "-- sat at the kitchen table and opened the letter. It was postmarked from an address in France and written in an unfamiliar hand. It…" he had to pause for a moment "… was apparently from an aunt of hers who was travelling and had decided to send her a letter." A slight humming noise and movement under his hand distracted him; Sherlock was arching his neck the other way, the better to distribute John's absent-minded stroking evenly across his head.
"Don't stop," was the request.
"This, or reading?" John enquired hopefully.
"Both."
"Oh. Um, where was I…?"
"'… had decided to send her a letter.'"
"Oh yes. Right. Um." John thought frantically for a moment. "My dear Mary, the letter began, I hope you are well. I am enjoying my holiday and the Mediterranean climate--"
"Nice or Marseilles, then," interrupted Sherlock.
"What?"
"Well, the aunt is in France, Mediterranean implies on the south coast, the protagonist is clearly English by her name and the period suggested by the cover illustration, therefore her aunt is most likely English and English people holidaying on the south coast of France go to Nice or Marseilles. Obvious, really. Go on -- no, wait. The letter is going to contain a plethora of banal information, concealed amongst which will be a clue to some crime that has been committed, or more likely will be committed. Skip to that part, if you can find it."
John was feeling ever more out of his depth by the second but did his best to comply. "Um… it says here something about… the waiter at the hotel having a fake accent?"
"No, no, too simple, keep going. That's clearly a humorous reference to English tourists who wouldn't recognise a fake accent if it hit them in the face."
Wracking his brains, John tried again. "I… er, I have received news that a long-lost cousin of yours is returning from abroad and would like to meet with you."
"Pah!" Sherlock snorted. "Terrible writing -- the author, not the fictional aunt. Or perhaps both. Who actually refers to someone as a 'long-lost cousin', or breaks the news of them becoming un-lost in such an offhand way? And how would the cousin know to contact the aunt in France, when she's on holiday? Why not just write to Mary directly? This story becomes more improbable by the moment. What's Mary's reaction?"
John, floundering to keep up, turned the page and cleared his throat to buy time. "I pick up pen and ink from my writing bureau, intending to reply immediately."
Sherlock flung out his arms in dramatic despair, knocking the book from John's hands so that it fell to the floor. "Save us! Continuity errors, person shifts and tense inconsistencies, all in the one sentence! Mary was sitting at the kitchen table, not her desk; the passage began in third person and past tense and goes on in first person present tense. Really, John, this is quite dreadful. One would almost think the author was making it up on the spot."
His eyes danced with glee, daring John to respond. A sheepish look came over John's face and his cheeks turned pinkish. "All right, then. You've got me -- I was making that up. But how did you know?"
"What, apart from the horrendous style and outright errors?" The fond smile that Sherlock directed at him took the sting from the words. "I noticed, this morning, the very book you were purporting to read tucked away on the shelf over there without its dust jacket. It was not there two days ago, suggesting it was a recent purchase; yet a moment's observation when I came in just now showed me that it remains there, while the jacket is now gracing the book you were just reading. Although in theory it might be possible that you had bought two copies of the book, one with and one without, a more probable explanation is that you have somehow or for some reason placed its dust jacket on another book. This might have happened by accident -- many hardbacks have plain covers, easy to confuse -- except that you would then have noticed and commented on the mistake when you examined the cover after I asked what you were reading. A deliberate switch, then; and one you preferred to attempt to conceal. The question, then, is what you were concealing and why."
Sherlock lifted his head and looked at the book now lying half-under the coffee table. The false dust jacket had slipped partway off, revealing a black matte cover with a stylised print pattern and the top half of the word "Fifty" just visible at the top. He looked at John with an expression of frank horror. "John. Really?"
John was blushing in earnest now.
"Teenage girls and repressed housewives, hmm?" Sherlock teased, but he was clearly trying to hold back his giggles, and John gave in to a reluctant chuckle.
"Yes, all right, I know it's ridiculous. Would you believe me if I said it was research?"
"I hope this isn't for a case, John. If you're expecting to get a realistic idea of how the BDSM community functions from this, you would be sadly mistaken. I can recommend some far better sources. Or perhaps some practical experience would help?"
"Well, actually… wait, what did you say?" Through the embarrassment, John felt himself do a double-take.
"You don't think I keep a riding crop just for beating corpses, do you?"
That deep voice, suddenly lowering to a seductive rumble, Sherlock looking at him with one eyebrow raised suggestively, no shame at all, and John's embarrassment of a moment before was swept away by a rush of simultaneous desire and affection. He ran his fingers up the back of Sherlock's neck, brushing through the curls at his nape and pulling Sherlock's head down to nestle against his shoulder. "I was curious," he confessed openly. "I've always had a bit of a thing for, well, a touch of rough play, and the girls at the clinic were talking about this, said it was a hot read, and so I thought I'd give it a try."
"And was it?"
John shook his head ruefully. "I know you frequently disparage both my taste in literature and my writing style, but I'm fairly sure this book outdoes even my poor attempts to extemporise just now by way of bad prose. And the sex scenes were just frankly awful. As soon as I'd picked it up, I was wishing I hadn't, but I felt I had to see how it ends."
"Girl meets boy, gets boy, leaves boy, goes back to boy, marries boy, has children with boy and they live happily ever after. Oh and there's some beating, corporate intrigue and kidnappings along the way. Boring. See, you may complain but really you're far better off when I tell you the endings to things." Sherlock smirked.
John's mouth was open. "You got all that from just seeing part of the cover?"
Now it was Sherlock's turn to look abashed. "Actually no. I skim-read the Wikipedia summary of the plot. But," he held up a hand, "it's pretty much how every bad romance novel goes. I just thought I'd see whether this one had somehow escaped the doom of mundanity, given its somewhat unusual origins." Seeing John's bafflement, he continued. "You do know that it apparently started off as a work of fanfiction, no?"
John's skepticism was palpable. "Fanfiction? Isn't that also the preserve of 'teenaged girls and repressed women', writing badly plotted drivel? Actually now I come to think of it, that explains a lot..."
"Far from it, John! Imitation is not only the sincerest form of flattery but in many ways an endless opportunity to explore, recreate and create new interpretations of the original. Just think of the numerous arrangements, transcriptions and variations that composers have created from the work of others, many, I would go so far as to say, even better than the works on which they were based. Of course there are good and bad examples; this is simply a particularly execrable one of the latter. Unfortunate that this should have come to represent fanfiction in the eyes of the mainstream community, when there's so much better out there. It may be true that many of the authors producing transformative fiction are of the female persuasion, but that is by no means a reason to devalue their work. Fanfiction is a crucially important vehicle for exploring precisely those narratives that are excluded by the mainstream -- telling those stories for which the world is not yet ready."
"Well, all right," John conceded. Sherlock, once he got going on an idea, was a force to sweep up anyone and carry them along with the force of his impassioned speeches; his whole body was practically vibrating like a plucked string with excitement. As he was still mostly sprawled atop John, this was having a rather interesting effect; one long, tight-trousered thigh pressed closely into John's groin and shifted this way and that as Sherlock gestured with his hands to emphasise his point. John was having increasing difficulty focusing on the discussion supposedly at hand, and Sherlock, by his look of smug satisfaction, was not unaware of the fact.
In a last half-hearted attempt to carry on the conversation in some vaguely sensible way, John mumbled as he pressed up against the warm body above him (one of Sherlock's hands wandering down to his hips and the other up underneath his jumper and shirt, against his bare skin, didn't help his concentration any): "But I'm still doubtful. The writing might be better than that, but I can't imagine what the bedroom scenes might consist of that would be any good."
The smirk on Sherlock's face turned into an outright lascivious grin, as he disentangled himself and climbed to his feet beside the couch, holding out a hand for John to join him. "Come to the bedroom and I'll show you."