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“Am I pretty?”
“This” John motioned to the note plastered onto his forehead after he felt the silence was enough for an implication - to spark a thought - without giving himself away.
“Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models.”
“Yeah, but am I a pretty lady?” Sherlock leaned closer. Getting a better look at the name he himself wrote.
“I don’t know who you are, I don’t know who you’re supposed to be.”
“You picked the name!”
“Yeah but I picked it at random from the papers.”
“You’re not getting the hang of this game, are you, Sherlock.”
For a genius he could be awfully thick at times.
“So I am human, I am not as tall as people think I am. I’m- I’m nice ishhh… clever. Important to some people. But I tend to rub them up the wrong way.” Sherlock reached for a drink but put it down again. Figured it out had he? He should, really. It was plain as day.
“Got it.” He was humoured. It was rare to see him laugh. It used to be an everyday occurrence, but ever since that day at Bart’s…
Best not think about that at the moment.
“Finally?”
“I’m you, aren’t I?”
John let out such a content chuckle at that. Because Sherlock Holmes wasn’t at all as clever as he thought. As people thought. Only John knew what an idiot he was. And Sherlock Holmes thought he was clever, important, nice-ish and tended to rub people up the wrong way. He ignored that last bit.
“No.” John shook his head.
“No?”
“No, you’re someone else, keep going.”
“‘S your turn”
“Mm? Right. You have to write a new note. It’s supposed to be someone you’re familiar with. Just- here. Write a new name down - someone you know , yeah? And we’ll finish this game.” At least that’s what he thought he said. Might’ve slurred the words a bit. It’s fine, Sherlock’s writing a new name down. John looked away, put his hands over his eyes and then immediately brought them down again because of how stupid he felt doing it. Might’ve drank more than he’d cared to. Oh, Sherlock’s done. He leaned forward and let him replace the old note, tape cool against his skin in both the removing and adhering process.
On his forehead now, capital letters; SHERLOCK HOLMES (me).
“You don’t know Madonna?!” After he’d glimpsed his old note.
The dismissal Sherlock gave was a slur of every consonant in the English language. He simply waved his hand and didn’t explain further. “It’s your turn!”
“Right, so am I pretty?”
The pause was one of those long, scary ones that told you the mind palace was currently inhibited.
“Only yes or no answers.” Sherlock posed his question as a statement.
“Yeah, yes or no.”
“Uh. No.”
“Alright,” John leaned back. “You go.”
John had another sip of his drink. “Am I pretty?”
“Hm? No. At least I don’t think people think you are.”
“Agh, people. That’s much too wide a demographic.”
John shrugged. “It’s your question.”
“No, it’s your question, and I’m asking what you think.”
“Uh, then I’d say, probably so, yeah.” John giggled. It bemused Sherlock. This was turning into yet another puzzle for him to solve.
“Am I someone famous?” John continued
“You have an… international reputation.” Sherlock chuckled like an idiot.
“So I’m ugly and I’m famous. I must have some sort of talent then.” Sherlock hummed low in his throat. “Am I a singer?”
“No.”
“Dancer?”
Sherlock smiled. “On occasion.”
“You can’t- it’s yes or-“
“No, you’re not a dancer.” Sherlock dismissed him with a wave of his hand and had another drink. Made a face as he put it down back on his armrest.
“Actor. I’m an actor!”
“No you’re not, my turn.” John slumped back, waiting amused for the question Sherlock was thoughtfully formulating. He was never getting this right.
“I’m important, clever, nice-“
“Nice- ish .” John was quick to correct.
“Nice- ish , and pretty yet people don’t like me.”
“Right.” Brief pause. “Well, most people.”
“So there must be something else. Something that makes me dislikeable despite… Am I a murderer?”
“God, I hope not. Maybe.”
“Why, do you like me?”
“Lord help me, yes I do.” John’s chest was shaking from how he was wheezing. “ Sometimes. Sometimes you’re a prick.” Unconsciously they both had inched forward in their seats. It was John’s turn.
“Am I clever, then?”
“Yes.” A sure answer. No one was clever according to Sherlock. Because you’re an idiot. Oh, don’t be like that. Practically everyone is. For Sherlock to be so unreserved in admitting to someone else’s brilliance, it would-
Oh.
John laughed again, burrowing his face into the side of the chair.
Oh.
He was Sherlock, wasn’t he? They’d written down the same bloody name.
“What?” Sherlock asked with a smile on his face. Wanting in on what it was that had John in hysterics.
“No its-“ if John played his cards right he could get a lot out of his situation. “It’s nothing. Nothing.” Oh, this could be very good indeed. “So.” John cleared his throat. Sitting straight. Where should he start? “Am I… do people like me?” Not really the juiciest of questions, but it was a start.
Sherlock smiled crookedly. “I’d say so. Ye-” Eureka moment.
“Am I a virgin?”
A bit of silence filled the room. John was not tearing his eyes from Sherlock’s.
“N-. How am I supposed to know?” Oh god, he’d started saying no. Who could it be? It was Irene Adler, wasn’t it. The woman , as Sherlock so romantically put it. Or were there more? From before John? Could there have been more during John? He never went on any dates, from what he’d told him, but then again, he never told John anything. And how about those years he was away?
“Well I don’t know, maybe you have a girlfriend, boyfriend?” He was coming on so strong, wasn’t he. He had to tone it down or he’d give himself away. He didn’t want this game to end.
“No.” Final. Well, John supposes he knew as much. But he wanted more.
“Right… ever?” Stand down , John.
“I don’t see how this will help you figure out who I am, John. Most people have had a relationship in their lifetime haven’t they?” Bastard.
“Mmh.” John slumped back into his chair. His heart beating out his chest. “You go.”
“So I’m not a murderer then.” Sherlock was actually having difficulty putting this together. Eyes drifting distant. “I’m some sort of criminal?” Sherlock let John pour more of the thick nectar into his glass after refilling his own, both of which had emptied without him noticing.
John let out a heavy breath. “I don’t. I don’t know Sherlock, I really don’t.” He said before letting the rest of his lungs empty.
“Am I someone from one of our cases?” Our cases. What an idiot. Did he seriously think any of his brilliance had rubbed off on John? Any of the solving had to do with him? That’s not to say he wasn't smart - John knew a great many things. At the end of all their cases, when the ruse of adrenaline had eased and levelled it was Dr. Watson who took the centre stage on the couch in 221B while the neverending London traffic occasionally passed by, tearing through the silence of the dimly lit room. It was there he made sure that the world's only consulting detective was patched up again. Wide calloused hands wiped, stitched, bandaged, treated. Slow motions. Quicker and rougher if he was particularly tired or if Sherlock had pissed him off a bit - or a lot - that day. But to say he took part in the deducing, no, that was all him.
“Yeah, you are.” Sherlock was looking excited again. Glimmer in his eyes and hands flushed to his lips. John wasn't as awake. He was so content. Was the alcohol taking him? Lulling him? Well then he was going to have to decline Mr. Sandman, because he wouldn't miss this for the world. He smiled. Those half-smiles. Those smiles that startle him and which he immediately pushes down into a frown. Because he’s not good at this stuff . Not good at baring himself. Not eager to be read like an open book.
Why was it then he was eager to be in the company of Sherlock Holmes?
“Julia Stoner.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“That's who I am, Julia Stoner.”
“No I- Who is that?”
“Oh, for god’s sakes John, the speckled blonde. ” The puzzled look on John's face allowed Sherlock to continue. “Of course, she was important to some people, that being us as she led us to her killer. Whether she’s kind or tall, I have no opinion on the matter. But she is one of the few women in our cases and though most people would have found her speckles unappealing that didn't stop you from finding her attractive. Now she wasn't really all that clever was she? She let herself be killed by a shampoo bottle, but going from your perspective I’d say she’s probably the best fit.”
“A woman? I never said it was a woman.”
“No but because you said-. Is it a man?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
John hated how much implication was behind that utterance.
Seconds, hours, aeons passed in a dreadful silence.
“But to be fair I never said attractive , Sherlock I just said you’re pretty.” Pause. “The note.” Fuck !
“It’s your turn.” Right it is. And John was not going to be the only one humiliated by the end of this game, or so help him god.
“Am i gay?”
“John-”
“No, hold on because I think I might be onto something here.”
“Whatever it is you’re onto, that question is not going to lead you to the answer.”
“Would you just answer it?”
Sherlock looked contemplative. Brows furrowed. Mouth pinched into the sort of v shape it took on when he was holding something in, posture completely having stilled. His clear blue eyes fixed just a bit to the right of John’s dark blue. Only upon seeing those signs did John realise what an utter prick he was being. Sherlock wasn't contemplating, he was uncomfortable, of bloody course he was - what was John even trying to do here?
“Sher-”
“No.”
He had sodded this. It was going so well. So well.
“You’re not.”
John smiled a polite smile.
“Right.”
On the wedding day Sherlock delivers an exemplary speech. He talks about the elephant in the room. That time it was literal; for a case. He wasn’t going to mention the one in this venue, taking up all the air.
John doesn’t stand to hug him. He hangs his head instead.
He cries.