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A/N: Pre-Series 3, pre-Mary. Based on this great gifset. Had posted this a while back on tumblr but not here.
John Watson had to concentrate very hard and dredge up memories of some extremely unsavory events in order to keep the solemn expression he wore from breaking down entirely. Because what he was looking at was a bit not good. More than a bit, actually. Rather appalling, really. And mean-spirited. And unambiguously wrong.
And, as such, so very Sherlock Holmes.
He looked up to see the man himself observing him, those deep-blue eyes picking him apart. Suddenly John felt guilty and annoyed. The massive dick knew. Of course he knew. He knew that he wanted to laugh his bones loose and was holding it in with everything he had. And he was content to wait there, draped over the back of his armchair, working that loosely formed smirk, and those eyes and those fucking cheekbones –
Okay, maybe not the cheekbones, but the eyes and the lips, definitely.
John breathed noisily through his nose, held it, and let it out slowly through slack lips. Took a small sip of tea.
There. Much better.
“Well?”
John waited a beat, had another go at his tea, and looked up.
“Well what?”
“Accurate, wouldn't you say?” He nodded toward the newspaper spread across John's lap. “The description, I mean.”
“No.” John glanced down and regretted it, feeling his lips start to buzz. “Accurate is definitely not the first thing that comes to mind.”
“It's not?” There was genuine confusion in the voice.
“No. Actually, it's probably not even the fifth thing that comes to my mind,” said John. “Dickish would probably be the first. Or maybe childish would be the first. Actually, illegal would probably elbow all of them out of the way.”
Sherlock scoffed. “Illegal? Well, I suppose technically –”
“I'm surprised they even let you put this in here.” John shook his head. “Someone could get sacked over this.”
“I doubt they even read it carefully. Don't you know that revenue for print advertising has fallen dramatically in the past decade? They were happy to have a paying customer,” said Sherlock, drawing his dressing gown tighter around his spare frame. “I don't see the harm. It isn't as if I'm advertising state secrets, though … perhaps this might qualify as such since, as I've said, he is the government himself –”
“Come to that, I'm surprised Mycroft hasn't sent up any of his dark-suited 'friends' to bring you round for a little chat.”
The younger Holmes smiled slightly. “If he did, then I would count the experiment a success. I have a feeling Mycroft won't make it that easy for me.”
“An experiment? You're trying to sell your brother as an experiment?”
“No, making the sale is not really crucial to the results,” said Sherlock. “I don't think I'd have any takers, in any case. Would you want to purchase Mycroft?”
John took a breath. “I don't think anybody would - not the way you describe him in this advert.” His gaze swept the page, settling on the tiny type. “Tall, fat and annoying?”
Sherlock raised a brow. “And you say that's not an accurate description?”
John clamped his lips together. I will. not. laugh.
“He's not fat, Sherlock. I don't know what he looked like when he was 16 or whatever, but as he is now, he's in decent condition and not a bit heavy.”
“We obviously have differing opinions of what constitutes overweight.”
“Right. Mine comes down to actual medical knowledge and reality. Yours is based on having the eating habits of a butterfly.” John grimaced. “OK, so if selling him isn't the experiment, why the advert?”
“Quite simple. Mycroft prides himself on staying away from the tabloid press,” said Sherlock. “He considers it unseemly dross. Which it is, of course, but I think he enjoys the Sun, the Mirror and the Herald more than he lets on. If he sees this, he'll certainly let me know about it, and then I'll have my answer.”
“He could just say a friend saw it in the paper and rang him.”
“Mycroft has no friends,” Sherlock said. “Toadies, yes. Functionaries, yes. And believe me, if any of them do see this, they'll not let him know. They will, however, buy as many copies of this edition as they can so that they can look at this advert and have a private laugh each and every time he reminds them who is lord and master.”
“You know, most people who don't get on with their bosses just mutter under their breath or give them a two-finger salute when they're not watching," said John. "They don't put together an entire dossier of embarrassing material so that they can have a giggle every once in awhile.”
“John, really. You know Mycroft. Do you really think he has anyone fitting the description of most people in his employ?”
John glanced at the advert again. “If you don't think you're going to get any response, did you have to put your actual mobile number? You have enough cranks and weirdoes ringing as it is because of the blog.”
“I know.” Sherlock looked put out. “I was going to give them yours but it occurred to me that I could better monitor responses if I used my own.”
“Well, it's a good job you rethought that one, because if you had used mine, I'd have smashed it over your bloody head!”
“Tedious.” Sherlock glanced at his watch. “It's not as if your mobile is ringing off the hook anyway. Not since … let's see … Tabitha, wasn't it? Right. Not since Tabitha ended it with you.”
“Jessica.” John grimaced. “And that was more of a mutual thing.”
“Ah. So you mutually decided that you were a bit too old to be living with a flatmate? And you mutually agreed that you weren't exactly the dashing figure she felt someone of her inflated pedigree and limited intellect deserved? I suppose you also mutually came to the conclusion that she'd not be able to maintain the lifestyle to which she pretended to be accustomed with an injured Army doctor living on pension.”
John blinked slowly. “Actually, we mutually decided that if she were going to be transferred to her firm's Denmark offices, it didn't make sense to keep seeing each other.” John's eyes narrowed. “Isn't that your phone?”
Sherlock whipped the mobile out, a smile curving his lips. After another second, his face fell.
"It's nothing. Just Lestrade. Again." Sherlock scowled at the mobile until it stopped buzzing. "This is the sixth time today."
"Why aren't you answering? He could be ringing about a case."
Sherlock gave John a disdaining look. "He texts when he requires assistance on a case. No, he's seen the advert. He's had less of a sense of humor than usual about it."
"That could have something to do with that whole being-illegal thing I mentioned earlier."
"Don't be tedious, John. Of all the illegal things I've done, strictly speaking, during the time Lestrade has known me, it would be strange for him to grow a conscience now."
John decided it would be best to leave that alone.
"There was one moment of levity from Lestrade," Sherlock said. "He inquired about my asking price. That obviously was a joke."
"What did you tell him?"
"Fifty pounds. Thirty if he provided his own transportation."
"Fifty pounds? Sherlock!"
"I did say must go immediately in the advert. Besides which, everyone likes a bargain." Sherlock's expression suddenly lightened. "Ah, Lestrade's sending a text. Maybe there is a case in the offing."
"Well, there's something," John muttered, finishing off his tea. "God help us when you get bored."
"Lestrade must be at the scene. There is a picture attached. He -"
John looked up at the abrupt halt to the sentence, and he was half out of his chair at what he saw. Sherlock had gone pale as milk, his mouth falling open. The hand the held the mobile shook and John could hear him taking shallow breaths.
"No ..." he breathed, eyes going wide. "No. This can't be happening ..."
John did get up then, hurrying to Sherlock's side. He looked as if he were going to faint.
"Sherlock? Sherlock what is it?" He grabbed one thin arm and shook it. Sherlock's eyes were glazed and he seemed almost in a trance. "Sherlock!"
The consulting detective roused himself, and with a growl, shook himself out of John's grip, tossing the mobile onto the table as if he'd discovered it were radioactive. Bewildered, John listened to the door to Sherlock's bedroom slam shut. A moment later, a string of curses, rising in volume, could be heard from behind the closed door.
John gnawed his lip and started toward Sherlock's room, not going more than two steps before his gaze fell on the abandoned mobile. He hesitated before picking it up, but his curiosity got the better of him. He and Sherlock had been on some gruesome crime scenes, and he couldn't imagine what could have affected him in such a manner.
Taking a breath to prepare himself, John swiped his thumb over the phone and stared down at the photo that filled the screen. It took him just a moment to register that there was no blood, no gore, no horror of decomposition or brain spatter on a bare wall of a lonely room.
In fact, it wasn't a crime scene at all. It was an office. Mycroft's office. And the bodies in the photo were very much alive.
John felt the laughter bubbling up as he took in the sight of what had set off his flatmate. Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade had taken what the kids called a 'selfie' these days. In the photo, they were snogging their hearts out, with Greg holding out his phone to capture the moment and Mycroft holding up a handmade sign in big, dark letters that simply read: SOLD.
This is the morning of our love.
It's just the dawning of our love.
- Depeche Mode, "I Feel You" (Songs of Faith and Devotion)