Chapter Text
Look, John loves the Discord, he really, really does; he loves all the kinds of art they make, he loves their jokes and memes, he loves the way they love each other and how utterly themselves they are but, whoever introduced Sherlock Holmes to iNaturalist is currently both his favourite person ever and his Number One Enemy.
John finds himself relatively happy that his friend has found a new hyperfixation, (The last one had Sherlock spending many a sleepless night trying to make homemade Incisivosaurus-shaped chicken nuggets. They turned out well, but the whole flat, and somehow Mariana’s, still smelled of raw chicken.) it’s always a joy to see Sherlock excited and properly happy over something. However, Sherlock will not put his bloody phone down now.
Speak of the devil, Sherlock’s bedroom door flings open and out he goes, his dressing gown tied tightly around him, phone in hand.
“You’re up early for once,” John teases.
“Hmm,” Sherlock hums, flopping into the chair across John’s.
John sighs and takes a sip of his tea. He takes in the sight of his flatmate: Sherlock sits knees to chest, phone resting against them. He has his red robe on, typical of a Friday. The man’s hair has grown a bit out of its typical buzz, he will most likely shave it again soon. Everything seems to be in order, so why does something seem to be off? John studies his friend a little closer than before. Then, it hits him. To others, Sherlock would look as though he is focused, but John would like to think, to hope, he's gotten good at recognizing the man’s tells over the months he has known him. This is not the face of a focused Sherlock, but the face of one that says something is bugging him.
“What’s the matter?” John tries.
Sherlock tilts his head, looking up from the screen, “Hmm?”
“Something’s bothering you.”
“This imbecile keeps telling me that this is Papaver rhoeas, when it is so clearly Papaver commutatum.”
“Here,” John reaches out, “let me see.”
Sherlock hands John the phone. On the screen is a bright red poppy with four square-ish black marks.
“That is the commutatum, the Ladybird Poppy,” Sherlock says.
“Right, okay.” John leans forward and passes the phone back into Sherlock’s hand. “Now show me the other one.”
Sherlock does as told. “This, Watson, is the rhoeas, the Common Poppy.”
“That one hasn’t got the black, and its inside bits look different.”
“Exactly, Watson!” Sherlock grins.
John can’t help but to smile back.
The day goes on. Time passes quietly, only the sounds of Sherlock stimming and Archie’s snores interrupting the silence. Sherlock eventually changes from his dressing gown into a t-shirt with some kind of silly, ironic saying on it and a pair of sweats, but besides that one moment, he has yet to leave his phone.
John slaps his knees. “Alright, c’mon mate, you and I are taking Archie for a nice post-lunch walk.”
Archie near leaps up at the W-Word. Sherlock, does not.
Sherlock hops, a small excited thing. “Ah! Watson! Look!” He leans down, pulling his phone from out of his pocket.
John sighs, he really doesn’t mind Sherlock’s enthusiasm, he adores it really, but what was meant to be a twenty, maybe thirty, minute walk, has now become a three hour one.
Sherlock smiles down at a round, black beetle crawling low on the bark of a tree. He snaps a picture or thirty.
“Listen, mate, I really have to piss. You’ve got your picture, you've got loads of them, now, let’s go.” John groans. “Please.”
They do not end up going home right away. Sherlock stops them every five minutes, taking pictures of any life form he finds interesting. A species of moss he doesn’t recognize, a lichen or two, a few birds, various insects. John thinks that he might just have to take a page out of Archie’s book and pee in a bush.
“Y’know, Christ, I think one of these days I’m going to have to get you one of those backpack leash things.”
“Really now, Watson, that’s hardly necessary.” Sherlock can only be described as pouting.
“I know mate,” John beams, “just joking.”
Miraculously, they do make it back to the flat. John doesn’t even unhook Archie’s lead before bolting to the bathroom door.
The dog whines. Wet eyes boring deep into Sherlock’s soul.
“Fine.” Sherlock reaches into his pocket and pulls out a sandwich. He had shoved it in there before their walk, and evidently, had forgotten all about it.
Archie barks.
The man tears off a small chunk and tosses it to the begging dog. Archie snaps it up, mid-air. Sherlock huffs a laugh, gives the dog a pat, and unhooks the leash.
Well, if you can’t beat ‘em, you may as well join ‘em. “Record your observations. Share with fellow naturalists. Discuss your findings.” reads the graphic on the screen. He may as well see what all the fuss is about.
Email. “[email protected]”
Username. He thinks for a moment, may as well go simple. “JWatson”
Password. “ArchieW@tsonIsAGoodBoy012”
Password Confirmation. “@rchieWatsonisAGoodBoy012” Shit.
“ArchieW@tsonIsAGoodBoy012” There we are.
John clicks the green button.
Twenty minutes of poorly navigating the website, John decides that sometimes, things are just not meant to be. It takes him another fifteen to figure out how to delete his account. Christ, maybe he really is getting old.
Sherlock on the other hand, is having a bloody fantastic time. He has just received a possible identification for one of his posts.
Holmes-07 Observed: xx/xx/24 • 1:39 PM GMT Posted: xx/xx/24 • 5:06 PM GMT
[ID: a clear photo of a round, black beetle. The beetle has a ridged elytra and is crawling on tree bark.]
Burying and Carrion Beetles
Family Silphidae
London, UK
[REDACTED] suggested an ID xx/xx/24 • 5:27 PM GMT
Black Snail Beetle
Phosphuga atrata
this fella ? it matches the visual description and seems to be in the area. i could be wrong though. :3
Holmes-07: @[REDACTED] Seems correct. -SH
By nature, Sherlock Holmes is a rather curious man. And, after all, satisfaction did indeed tend to bring the cat back. He clicks on the stranger's profile.
The user has a profile image of a frog drawn in sidewalk chalk. A very peculiar first name, perhaps chosen by oneself, and nothing further than an initial for a surname. All typical profile information. The user’s biography confirming that the art within the profile picture was one’s own work. Sherlock clicks on the Observations tab. The user was American— Sherlock found it a little interesting that this user was identifying posts from a continent that they were not in.
Sherlock must be substantially bored, really this was all very unnecessary but it's not as if he's going to do anything with the information he is gathering. Finding out who the user was did not take very long for him at all. He decides to take a little scroll through one of its social media pages. Nothing of proper interest whatsoever.
Having solved the case of who the iNaturalist user was, he finds himself thinking about the Discord. An overwhelming, yet… Kind bunch. They were all so very enthusiastic to speak to (more so at) him. It was most certainly strange. Maybe, just maybe, he could take a little peek at the pets channel. Sherlock decides that yes, yes he should take a little peek.
🧪 WEIRD SCIENCE 🧪 Watson-Holmes
guybs...i think ive posted this b4 but i am thinking so very much about how my cats cheeks squish
[ID: An image of a ginger cat laying down. His cheeks are squished a little due to the way he is laying]
Hang on. Sherlock pulls up the iNaturalist user’s social media profile again. He looks back to the Discord image.
It is undoubtedly the same cat.
Sherlock nearly cackles with glee.
Okay. Dinner? Ordered. Archie? Fed. There’s enough necessities for at least another week, and the bills have already all been paid for the month. John sighs, content, leaning into the sofa (which, despite having been set on fire, the multitude of crumbs, and many other mishaps at this point, is genuinely somehow one of the comfiest sofas John Hamish Watson has ever sat upon.). He shuts his eyes. He deserves a little nap. Four bloody hours of walking around London today. Just a quick little power nap. Fifteen minutes, at most. That’s it.
There is a knock at the front door. Mariana yawns, stretching her arms above her head.
“Hi, hello!” she greets upon opening the door.
“Delivery for 221B?”
“Here, I can take it up for them.” Mariana smiles.
The delivery person nods. “Have a nice day!”
“You too!” she shouts after them.
Before she can even make it half-way up the stairs, the door creaks open and Sherlock pops his head out.
“Shhhh,” he hushes, finger to his lips.
“Nap?” Mariana mouths.
Sherlock nods, a smile tugging at his lips.
When Mariana enters the flat, she turns to put the food down before taking in the room. What she then sees makes her slap a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles. On one end of the couch sits John Watson. He’s tucked into the corner, leaning on his elbow. His head is tilted nearly all the way back, and his mouth is agape. On the other end of the couch is Archie. The dog’s position a near perfect mimic of John’s. Mariana reaches for her phone.
“No, don’t,” Sherlock whispers.
Mariana cocks her head.
Sherlock smirks. “I’ve already taken several and have ordered some to be printed out.”
Mariana playfully gasps, “You are the devil.” She grins.
“Oh, don’t act as if you aren’t going to go out and buy frames in order to hang one up in both our flat and yours.”
Mariana has to press her hand against her mouth and plug her nose to make sure her laughter isn’t audible.
When she has calmed down enough, she lets out a sigh. “We have to wake him up, you know.”
Sherlock nods mournfully.
“Okay.” She steps back. “You do that. We are still on for Girl’s Night at 8:00, yes?”
Sherlock looks at her, eyebrow raised, as if she had just asked him the most ludicrous thing in the world. “Obviously. We have Girl’s Night every Friday.”
She smiles softly and waves Sherlock goodbye.
With Mariana gone, Sherlock turns to John. There are so many possible ways to wake the man up. Sherlock grabs the delivery bag, and promptly drops it upon John’s sleeping lap.
“JeSUS!” John startles. “Oh, hey. Food.” He sniffs.
“Yes, indeed. What did you order for me?”
“Chicken pot stickers and two eggrolls,” John replies, digging through the bag.
“Hm. Acceptable.” The tiniest of smiles graces Sherlock’s lips like lightning.
“How long was I out?” John asks, handing Sherlock the food.
“Forty-eight minutes.”
John groans, “Oh c’mon, it was supposed to be fifteen.”
“You are getting closer to that number every time, Watson. Last month it was two hours.”
“Oi, bugger off.” John tosses an extra chopstick at him.
Sherlock dodges and snickers.
“So,” John starts after the two have been sitting in comforting silence, “You and Mariana are getting along well, it seems.”
“Yes?” Sherlock says, unsure of what exactly John is getting at.
“What do you two, um, do. At… Girl’s Night.”
“Movies, documentaries. We point out various inaccuracies and yell about them. Sometimes I smoke, she has a glass of wine or two. I braid her hair, she paints my nails. We do each other's makeup, sometimes. I don’t know.”
“Why don’t we do some of that last stuff together?” John half-heartedly jokes.
Sherlock deadpans him.
“Yeah, no, that’s fair. Deserved that one.” John furrows his eyebrows. “Does it, uh…bother you? That she calls it Girl’s Night?”
“No?” he states and shoves two pot stickers into his mouth.
“Right but, like, you aren’t? A girl?”
Sherlock shrugs and attempts to say something around his food. It comes out as garbled nonsense.
“Mate, you’re in your thirties, c’mon, don’t talk with your mouth full.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes and swallows down the pot stickers. “Yes, but I’m not much of a man really either. You, however, are a hypocrite, John Watson.”
“Sorry, what?”
“I can recall many a time in which you ha-”
“No, sorry, not that.”
“Oh. Yes. I’m nonbinary, Watson, really it's quite obvious.”
“You- I-...Okay..” John hesitates for a moment. “I haven’t been, uh, using the wrong pronouns or- or anything like that have I?”
“Nope,” Sherlock replies, bored, popping the p.
“And, you’d tell me if I was, yeah, ‘cause like-”
Sherlock cuts John off with a dramatic sigh. “Really Watson, there is no need to make such a big deal out of this.”
John sputters, “Wha- Sherlock! Mate! Of course it's a big deal, it's a bloody huge deal!” John stands.
Sherlock raises an eyebrow.
“Oh c’mon, Christ. You know damn well that’s not what I meant. You,” he points to Sherlock, “are my friend. And I l- I care. About you. A lot. Stuff like this,” John makes a vague circular motion between him and Sherlock, “matters. Knowing these important things, about you, matters.”
“Right. Yes.” Sherlock pokes at his food.
“Okay. Good. Yes. I’m sorry for shouting.” John sits. “So,” he exhales, “how is that website of yours going?”
Sherlock brightens. “I have discovered such an interesting thing, Watson.”
“Yeah?” John asks, leaning back and crossing his arms.
“It appears, that one of your-”
“Our,” John corrects.
Sherlock waves him off. “One of your fans has contributed to identifying one of my posts.”
“How d’you know?”
“You see Watson, it does not know who I, in particular, am and that I know who it is.” Holmes grins.
“Okaayy..”
“It started all because I was rather simply curious. User [REDACTED] left an identification suggestion on one of my posts. I became quickly interested in figuring out who was behind such a fast and correct response. I decided to have a little look around, check out the user’s profile. There, I found a name, and a rather peculiar one at that. Not only did I have a name, but due to the nature of iNaturalist, I had a location too. It was incredibly easy to find it from then on.”
“Right, okay, you realize how weird that is, yeah?”
“Hush, Watson, I’m not finished.”
“Right yeah, how do you know they’re a fan?”
“It/its and a rather large list of neopronouns, Watson.”
“What’s a ne- Okay, no, not the time. How do you know it's a fan, then?”
“The cat, Watson!”
“Cat?”
“Yes! The cat! I got a bit bored, having solved it so quickly, and I decided to take a peek at the pets channel in your freakish little Discord. There, Watson. I saw it. The cat. Discord user, weirdscience9046, had posted a photo of the exact same cat that the iNaturalist user had posted on one of its social medias.”
“Christ, you are brilliant. That’s bloody well terrifying, though.”
“Knowing your lot, it would probably go insane if it knew this.” Sherlock smirks.
“Oi! Arsehole! They are all your kids too! You signed the bloody adoption papers!” John’s smile could power the whole world.
“I did not!” Sherlock gasps. “You illegally forged my signature! Which, by the way, is not even close to my real signature!”
“You're just saying this to get out of child support.” John sighs, placing the back of his hand to his forehead.
“Most of them are bloody adults!”
“Oh woe is me, just a single mother of 300, working day and night!” John flops dramatically onto the couch.
“Watson! You are being a fool!” Sherlock's grin just as bright as John’s.
Mariana finishes painting Sherlock’s last pinky. She's decided on painting his nails a dark green this week. He likes green. Mariana thinks purple looks best on him.
Sherlock sniffs, “Grey's Anatomy orrrr ER?”
“Mmmm,” She starts on her own nails, the same green, “Grey's Anatomy.”
Sherlock nods and taps on his phone. After a moment, he groans, “Mrs. Hudson, it won't connect.”
She sighs and rolls her eyes. “Give it here, imbécil.”
“Rude.” He hands the phone.
She gives him a look that can only say Says you.
“Ah, yes. You aren’t connected to my internet.”
“We have different internets?”
“¿Como puede alguien tan listo como tú ser tan estúpido?”
Sherlock snorts.
“Here we are!” Mariana sing-songs, as the totally not pirated copy of Grey's Anatomy begins to play on the T.V.
“I don't understand how you can like this show.”
“Says Mr. Cried When-”
“SHSHSHSHSHSHSH,” he shushes loudly, bapping at her.
John sighs and knocks his head against his desk. Little Edit Boy Brain does not want to do the Little Edit Boy Things. Maybe he should take a break.
With a groan, he pushes himself up. The flat is far too quiet. His chest tightens at the silence. He starts pacing around his room. John Watson of a few months ago would laugh and guffaw at him. Missing the near constant noise and chaos that comes with living with Sherlock Holmes, have you gone mad? It's a bit pathetic. Really pathetic, actually. God, Sherlock will literally be back in another hour or two. He always will. It's not as if him and Mariana are going to run off together. Right? Yeah… Christ, what a funny image honestly. Sherlock and Mariana. Do either of them have middle names? He’s honestly quite proud of them. Of how far their relationship has come. They had a bit of…an awkward start, he’d say. Well, and yeah, Sherlock still refuses to call her anything but Mrs. Hudson…but they kinda have a bit of a sibling-esque relationship now? Does Sherlock have any family? John accidentally walked in on Mariana’s monthly Zoom call with her family once. God, that was a mess. A funny one looking back at it, but a mess nonetheless. It's stupid, he’s stupid, but he finds himself missing Mariana too. Ever since Girl’s Night started, John feels as if he’s seeing less of her. Fucking hell, it’s literally just one day— not even, actually, it’s one night a week, for around three hours. It's not as if they have stopped hanging out with him, he sees them everyday. Yet…at the same time, when’s the last time the three of them have watched something together? When’s the last time Mariana came over to 221B just to drink wine and talk? Fuck, whatever. He’s being stupid and pathetic. He’s not making any sense. He’s waffling in his own damn brain. John shakes his head, wishing he were an etch-a-sketch. Start himself all over, brand new.
Through the walls, something makes Mariana laugh so hard she starts heaving. Maybe it’s jealousy, maybe it’s FOMO, maybe it's insecurity, whatever it is, he gives up on fighting it. He smashes the leaking dam inside his mind, and lets all the negative thoughts rip through. John Hamish Watson takes his pathetic, foolish, failure of a self, and throws it into bed.
There is a knock at John’s door.
“Come in.”
The door knob twists, the door creaks open. There stands Sherlock Holmes (who else would it be really?).
“Hey. Did you have fun?” John’s smile does not reach his eyes.
“Yes. Look.” Sherlock wiggles his fingers.
“Nice colour, mate.”
“Indeed.” There is a pause, Sherlock fixes his gaze on John. “Watson, are you quite all right?”
John sighs. “Yeah, I’m- yep.”
“Would you…like to talk about it?”
“I’m okay, really. Just the old brain being a bit silly.”
“Really, Watson.”
John breathes out a mirthless laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Alright.”
Sherlock steps into John’s bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
“I dunno, mate, think I just miss you and Mariana a bit. I know, it’s silly, but I think Girl’s Night is messing with my FOMO or something. Christ, sorry, bit dickish of me really.”
Sherlock moves to John’s bed. “Move over.”
“Sorry?” Watson sits up.
“Move.”
“I-” John stares for a moment. “Okay?”
John moves. Sherlock lifts the duvet, and sits.
“What are you doing?”
“Sleepover,” Sherlock states, as if the most obvious of things.
“...You want to have a…sleepover.”
Sherlock hums, “Yes, I believe it would be quite beneficial for the both of us.”
John gapes. Staring as if Sherlock had just burst into a sudden, fully choreographed, musical number.
Sherlock shifts slightly. “That is, unless-”
“Noise!” John bursts. “You- the thingy. You don’t like the noises people make in their sleep.”
Something in Sherlock relaxes, and he turns his head away from Watson. He points to his ear, revealing a small, black earbud. “Mrs. Hudson gifted these to me a while back. They work well as noise reduction, and are Bluetooth as well. I am not a…fan of headphones that go in your ears, nor am I if they are wireless… but, for this situation, I can see them being rather useful. I have already tested them as well, to see if they will stay in my ears as I sleep.” Sherlock pauses for a beat and looks back at John, “The amount of Marijauna in my bloodstream can’t hurt either.”
John huffs out a laugh, and looks down at his hands. John is quiet for a moment, and then, he whispers, “What do people even do at sleepovers?”
“I suppose we’ll find out together.” Sherlock replies, soft.
They started with a movie. Night at The Museum, specifically. An utter classic in John’s opinion.
“Watson, pause it.” He does. “That line, where have I heard it before?”
“Brokeback Mountain. We watched it with Mariana last month.”
Sherlock nods solemnly, “Ah yes, the tragic queer cowboys.”
John snorts, Sherlock feels it from where their shoulders have become pressed together. The film is resumed.
One movie swiftly becomes another. From Night At The Museum , they move on to Cars 2 (having seen the first one the same night they watched Brokeback Mountain with Mariana).
“They have implied the existence of a Cars equivalent to 9/11, Watson. This is-”
“Oh my God. Please just shut up and watch the film.”
And two, became three. The pair had sunk lower, and lower; now laying side by side.
“Listen Sherlock, I really don’t think you’ll like that one. It's not very…scientifically accurate.”
“Hmm. I will be the judge of that.”
It took until the final credits rolled for Sherlock to speak, “Watson. I fear I may have to commit many heinous crimes.”
“I told you you wouldn’t like The Bee Movie, mate,” He chuckled.
A rant about the movie, became an infodump about bees, became listening to Sherlock talk through his deductions on identifying various species. All the while, they grew even closer. Bodies entangling, the head of a certain detective now resting upon Johns’s chest.
“Could it be that one?” John suggested, fingers subconsciously rubbing through the crown of Sherlock’s slightly overgrown, buzzed scalp.
“Mmm, possibly.” Sherlock tapped at the screen for a few moments, “Ah, no, not likely. Setophaga virens does not seem to be in the area at that time.”
“Maybe try the other one you thought it might be?”
“Setophaga chrysoparia?”
“Uh, sure, yeah. Bring up the map for that one.”
“Ah yes, there we are. Excellent work, Watson.”
Holmes-07 suggested an ID xx/xx/24 • 2:56 AM GMT
Golden-cheeked Warbler
Setophaga chrysoparia
Female. -SH
John laughs, “I hardly did anything.”
Sherlock presses his grin into John’s chest.
John Watson freezes. The rose-tinted bubble surrounding them pops. A dam somewhere cracks. Something in them both does too.
“Uh..Sherlock?” John whispers.
“Yes, Watson?” Sherlock replies, as still as he can.
“This isn’t…this isn’t something really typical for…for friends to do. Y’know that, yeah?”
“Watson.” He grips at John’s shirt, “It does not matter.”
“What?”
“Why does it matter what a society, which is in a constant state of being wrong about things, has to say about what is or isn’t something platonic?”
“I-” The gears in John’s mind click.
“Are you enjoying this?”
John does not reply, lost in his racing thoughts. Sherlock maneuvers himself so he can look at John.
“John.”
The man startles at his name. He does not know if it is from Sherlock saying his first name in general, or from the vast gentleness it was uttered.
“Yeah?” John asks, nearly a breath.
“Are you enjoying this?” Sherlock repeats, sounding much more a statement than question.
“...Yeah.”
“Then that is all that matters.”
Sherlock lays his head carefully back onto John’s chest.
“Yes,” John breathes, “Okay.”
Tentatively, John places his hand back onto Sherlock’s head. Even more unsure, he wraps his other arm over the detective’s shoulder blades. He can feel every ounce of tension leave Sherlock’s body. Yeah. Yeah, no, okay. This is good.
Something in them both heals. Somewhere, repairs are being made to a dam. And somewhere, a child blows rose-tinted bubbles and giggles with glee.