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It had begun with far too much white wine and a question from Lestrade.
"Well, I'd just come from the Subcontinent," Watson said expansively, "and needed a flatmate. Stamford tells me another chap needs to share lodging. We go over to Bart's. And I gape like a codfish at this gorgeous man in the lab doing awful things to his hands. Sherlock's hands are so beautiful, aren't they, Lestrade? Seems he was getting blood for his murder test."
"Oh, I knew John was a member of the family the moment I laid eyes on him," Sherlock Holmes was more sedate but his quiet smile lit the room. "'This dashing soldier has recently returned from Afghanistan, where he has slept his way through Her Majesty's finest and not a few charming local lads before taking a bullet,' thought I."
Lestrade was rather sorry he'd asked. But curiosity drove him on. "But how do you know? Know-know, I mean?"
"Oh we have to be careful, of course." Watson winked at the policeman. "Ask if one likes to play backgammon. Or if he knows Uncle Oscar."
Holmes smiled. "To which the answer is of course 'No, I don't know him. Should I?' Which opens you both up to speak of shared interests."
"Such as sharing a flat." Watson patted Holmes' thigh. "As respectable bachelors."