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“Left hand red,” Mariana calls out, and watches both John and Sherlock move accordingly.
They're playing Twister in the sitting room of 221B, the sofas and coffee table moved slightly out of the way to make room for the brightly colored mat. John and Sherlock had just returned to the flat, tired and appropriately upset with human depravity, when Mariana pitched the idea of a game to them to unwind.
When Mariana eventually found Twister stuffed in a closet or other, she offered it out, and then vehemently refused to play with them because she didn't need to be unwound. She did, however, take up the position of referee.
She sits now on the floor in front of the mat, just out of the way enough that neither John nor Sherlock can fall on her. She's been filling out the report for the Solitary Cyclist while they struggle. John and Sherlock are both awkwardly sprawled out over the Twister mat in the same sort of bridge pose.
“No… no, yeah, Zach got shot,” John says.
“What?”
“Bobby Carruthers is a man of his word.” John is low to the mat so that holding himself up doesn't take so much energy. He's in an unstable position and if he were to try and hold himself up any higher, a weak gust of wind would knock him over. “But yeah, I patched the wound and then… yeah.”
“John, if I have to cover your ass for this–” Mariana begins.
“No– No! No, it– we were fine, we got questioned by the police, and that was it. They thanked us for solving it.”
“They should've really been thanking just you,” Sherlock insists again.
“Come off it,” John huffs, for lack of anything better to say. He looks back up at Mariana. “The police might call us back in eventually to see how everything goes down, or if they need additional input, but yeah.”
Mariana spins the wheel again, then continues typing. “Left foot blue,” she calls out.
John groans in complaint. Sherlock just chuckles at him. “I don't see how this is giving you so much trouble,” he says. “This is a children's game.”
“We aren't children,” John replies, a bit of strain on his voice as he holds himself up.
“You are,” Mariana interrupts.
John rolls his eyes. “You shut up, you're the one who thought of this.” Mariana looks up from her laptop and grins at him. “And besides, not all of us are horrifically flexible.”
“I'm not,” Sherlock says, unsure whether he should be offended or not.
“You are. And you've got longer limbs than me. You're built like a wet spaghetti noodle.”
Sherlock's laughter comes out easily in disbelief, and he lets himself drop onto the mat after some struggle to keep his balance.
John gets up and throws his hands in the air. “Yes! Get in!”
“Don’t get too excited, you’re playing another round,” Mariana says.
“Aw, what?”
“I’m still working,” she explains. “The two of you need to wind down, and I’m not going to let Sherlock half-ass the case report himself because he’s tired.” She continues on even as Sherlock sniffs in offense and puts his hands on his hips. “What else are you two even going to do all night?”
John frowns. “Um, editing. Obviously.”
“The editing can be postponed until tomorrow morning,” Mariana says gently. “We’ll be here.”
John relents, finally, sighing as he goes and stands at the opposite end of the mat to Sherlock.
“I’m obliged to agree with Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock says, idly stretching his arms. “You did save a man’s life today.”
“He’s still a twat.”
“A twisted, parasitic bastard, yes,” Sherlock says, “but you did excellent work, did you not? He certainly didn’t bleed out on the stage. He didn’t die on your hands, which means he’ll be alive to face exactly what he deserves. Does that not earn you some rest?”
“I… yeah. I guess it does.”
Mariana claps her hands together. “Good!” She spins, then announces accordingly. “Right hand on red.”
Sherlock watches the particular way John bends down. “Watson, truly, I couldn’t recommend that any less.”
“Oh, am I not playing Twister properly now?” John asks from where he’s bent over.
“Bend your knees, don’t bend at the hips,” Sherlock insists. “I’m not saying you’re playing it wrong, I’m saying you’re playing it inefficiently.”
“I can play Twister however I bloody well like!”
“See, this is what I mean when I say you are both children,” Mariana speaks up.
“He’s badgering me,” John says.
“You’re both idiots,” Mariana rolls her eyes. She spins again, then looks back at the screen of her laptop. “Left hand green. Er– wait, what did you patch the wound with?”
John bends his knees - unable to admit that yes, Sherlock was right, the way he had bent over before made things ten times harder - and sets his left hand on a vacant green circle. He looks back up at Mariana. “Sorry?”
“Zach’s bullet wound,” she says. “Did they have, erm… like, a first-aid kit, or something at the wedding?”
“The condom,” Sherlock succinctly states.
Mariana’s jaw just about hits the floor. “Haha, what?”
John inhales. “Okay, listen–”
“Am I covering your ass for this or not?” Mariana asks, setting her laptop down on the hardwood and leaning forward on her elbows.
“The only thing you’re covering his arse for is that stupid bloody bike,” Sherlock mutters.
“I used what I had!” John groans. “He got shot and then the pressure from the sucking wound collapsed his lung, so I used my pen between his ribs, and then I sealed it with the condom.”
“And my plasters,” Sherlock says.
“And Sherlock’s plasters.”
Mariana stares at the both of them for a very, very long time.
John is looking over at her as innocently as he can.
Sherlock is almost completely neutral, barring the slight quirk at the left corner of his mouth, just barely conveying his amusement.
She takes a breath. “A cheap pen, a condom from 2019, and Thomas the Tank Engine plasters,” she says, agonizingly slowly. “Mmm… mhm. Yes. Very… resourceful.”
“Extremely!” John insists.
“At least it got some use,” Sherlock comments.
Mariana resumes her position as referee and spins the wheel again. “Left foot green.”
John moves accordingly, steadying his balance out after a couple of moments. Sherlock, of course, has no trouble. “You know, it probably would’ve never been used if not for today,” John sighs.
“I would worry about the degradation of the latex over time, yes,” Sherlock says.
“I mean relationship-wise,” John says. “My last serious one ended catastrophically. I’m starting to think nothing’s going to work out with anybody. I mean, even before that, like– I was broken up with for being generally unserious! I really– it’s the waffling, honestly, it has to be. Literally at the most inopportune times.”
Mariana inhales. “Is this like yoga?” She asks. “Is this what people mean when they say a good stretch makes you have emotional release?”
“Yeah, it’s worse yoga,” John nods. “Sorry.”
Sherlock’s brows furrow. He seems to consider the whole topic for a long moment, then clears his throat. “If it makes you feel any better… and if I have picked up the proper implication here, which I hope I have… I was once scolded for not being loud enough.”
John’s head whips around to stare at him.
“What?” Sherlock asks, indignantly. “If I share, it softens the blow of embarrassment on you. Your ears are red and your pulse has jumped. I can tell you’re embarrassed.”
“I just…” John swallows and shakes his head, a confused smile spreading on his face. “I just wasn’t expecting it?”
“I’m certainly not celibate,” Sherlock frowns. “You’ve both met a previous partner of mine, in fact.”
Mariana’s jaw somehow drops further than before. She dramatically sits forward, eyes sparkling with curiosity, much to Sherlock’s thinly-veiled embarrassment.
John eliminates himself from the round and sits down on the mat. “What? Who?”
Sherlock sits down as well. “Victor Trevor.”
“Victor!?” Mariana loudly asks. “You dated Victor when you were in school?”
“Yes, up until I was expelled,” Sherlock begins. “We stayed in contact thereafter, but we drifted. We both properly split when we realized we had gone down separate paths.” He wrings his hands in his lap, rhythmically tapping his left heel against the vinyl mat beneath him.
“At least you guys ended things pretty amicably,” John says. He immediately takes it back when Sherlock gets this absolutely gutted look on his face. “Okay, well, before the end of the last case, I mean.”
“He… he deserved to know,” Sherlock eventually says. “It was upsetting when we split. It was… it was like I was losing him again.” After a moment, he pulls himself to his feet and stands on his end of the mat again, one foot on a blue circle, the other on yellow. “Nevertheless. I hope it's clear enough that I care.”
John smiles gently up at him, then pulls himself up to his feet as well, stepping back to his own starting spot. “I hope it is, too.”
“I think he would have been angrier had you not told him,” Mariana says. She spins the wheel. “Left hand green.” John and Sherlock both bend down accordingly.
“I'm gonna be awkward,” John starts.
“You always are. Just say it,” Mariana coaxes.
“Was he any good?”
Sherlock lets out the loudest, most genuinely emotive gasp he can manage. He's absolutely scandalized. “Watson!”
“You literally just shared to save me from embarrassment! I can't help but ask!” John raises his free hand in surrender.
Sherlock sighs. “Watson, that's absurd–”
“Listen, okay, I share. Mariana shares… occasionally. I don't mean to overstep a boundary by asking outright, but it just…” Somehow he surrenders more, body tilted backwards like he's actually, physically backing off without being able to take a step back. “You’re welcome to it.”
“Watson, I'm not going to indulge you.”
In the short silence after, Mariana narrows her eyes. “...But was Victor any good, though?”
Sherlock bristles. “Yes. Yes. He was very good. Are you happy now?”
“You'll indulge Mrs Hudson in vulgarities and not me???” John asks, faking hurt.
Sherlock rolls his eyes, but there's laughter in his voice. “For the love of God. Who's badgering who, now?”
John scoffs at him. “You usually just don't answer, you know.”
“You left your microphone upstairs,” Sherlock states. “Some personal details are better left withheld from listeners, out of reach of your editing. There's no chance of you forgetting to edit something out of an episode.”
“Mm, good point,” Mariana says.
“Yeah, yeah, that's… that's fair, I wouldn't completely trust myself to remember to remove something like this anyway.”
Mariana reaches down and spins the wheel again. “Right foot on red,” she says. John and Sherlock both stretch to reach.
John thinks. “Sooo… anything else you wanna share while you're off mic?”
“I… once went out with a drag queen,” Sherlock offers.
Mariana blinks. “Really?”
“Well, to say I went out with him is a strong term. I became quite familiar with him and we had a noncommittal relationship due to our own circumstances,” Sherlock explains.
“Bit like, uh… friends with benefits, then?” John asks.
“I suppose, yes,” Sherlock says. “It was rather enjoyable, for the connection and then the physicality of it. We're busy with our own things now, of course.”
Mariana hums. “There's a lot we don't know about you, isn't there?”
“Well, if John turned off his stupid microphone every once in a while, perhaps I'd share more.”
John splutters a laugh. “Excuse you! I'm documenting your cases!”
Sherlock lets out an ugh and rolls his eyes. There's truly no winning there.
The game carries on, John and Sherlock somewhat contorting themselves as determined by the game’s spinner, moving all around the mat for quite some time. As the night grows later and later, John and Sherlock are reduced to incessant, petulant bickering once again.
Mariana had given up playing referee about ten minutes ago when things started to get genuinely heated.
Suddenly, John leans to the side and bumps Sherlock with his shoulder. Sherlock just about completely topples over on his side, but just barely manages to stay upright.
“John! That's cheating!” Mariana hisses, trying and failing to stifle her laughter.
“He's being an arse,” John justifies.
“Even the rulebook says that a good strategy is to make your opponent go over or under your position,” she complains. “That’s not an illegal move.”
“Yeah, but it's childish.”
Sherlock bumps John with his shoulder now. “You're childish. It's not my fault you aren't using a strategy. The point of the game is simply to be the last man standing.”
John rights himself. “Okay, listen. This game isn't as easy for me as it is for you, alright?”
“Even when you've cheated?”
“Cheated!?”
“Yes, I've seen your knees touch the mat at least twice. That should mean an automatic disqualification, should it not?”
“Right, okay, you're asking for it–” John leans to the side and completely shoves Sherlock over, hitting him hard with his shoulder. Mariana gasps in the background before bursting out laughing.
Sherlock makes a noise when he lands and rolls onto his back, only to find John's hands on his shoulders, pinning him down. “Wh– Excuse you-! I'm simply calling out that you've cheated!”
“I never touched the mat with my knees, you're just being an arse.”
“I am not!”
“You are!”
Sherlock squirms beneath John's grasp, thrashing about until he finally hooks his legs around John's hips and throws all of his weight to the side, successfully flipping their positions. He ends up seated on John's abdomen, both palms pressed flat against John's chest.
“You’re awful,” Sherlock gets out.
“You're worse,” John returns. He tries to wiggle his way out from beneath Sherlock. He gets both hands around Sherlock's hips only once, knowing he can be lifted pretty easily, before Sherlock tries (and fails) to pin John's hands.
John slides an arm around Sherlock's side and reverses their positions again, Sherlock stuck beneath him with his legs still locked around John's waist.
John, without giving it a second thought, digs his fingers into Sherlock's ribs. Much to everyone's surprise, it evokes something somewhere between a shout and a yelp, followed closely by strained laughter.
They continue loudly roughhousing as Mariana's laughter reaches pained wheezing levels, Sherlock unable to free himself from being tickled (a terrible, awful fate for him, truly, he'd forgotten how ticklish he was). Sherlock manages to get out a litany of colorful and almost incomprehensible threats through his laughter before John finally lets up.
“Fuck’s sake,” John laughs out, trying his best to catch his breath. He leaves Sherlock winded and panting on the crumpled Twister mat to go and get a glass of water from the kitchen.
Mariana finally regains her composure enough to take a proper inhale, and climbs to her feet to help Sherlock up. She completely pauses when she sees him. “Sherlock, oh my God, your face is so red,” she gets out, eyes wide, still grinning.
Sherlock buries his face in his hands. “Oh, stop,” he groans.