John tapped away on his laptop, bent on making a blog post so he'd have at least a little something to show for his wasted weekend off. He'd planned to be enormously productive--clean the flat, write up a few cases, catch up on some medical journals, maybe even start jogging like he'd been planning for a month--instead, he spent the entire weekend on the couch, eating junk food and watching telly.
Sherlock breezed into the room and John ignored him, as he had come to find it was altogether better to do when Sherlock entered a room. John had been watching Dog Whisperer and was intrigued by Cesar's idea of domination through non-reaction to attention seeking behavior.
"John," Sherlock said. "I want to conduct an experiment."
"What a surprise," John said distractedly.
"A human experiment."
John glanced up from his laptop. "On a live human?"
"On many live humans."
John looked back at the laptop, reminding himself about non-reaction.
"A psychological experiment," Sherlock said. "Just to ease your mind."
"Strangely, it's less at ease now than it was before."
"I want to catalogue various subject's reactions to vulgarity. It will help me build my manipulation skill set."
"The fact you have a manipulation skill set is vulgar."
"I've often heard women prefer 'bad boys' to 'nice guys.'"
"Certain types of women, I suppose." John read over the line he'd just typed; it made no sense at all. He scowled and erased it. "Just like some men prefer 'sluts' to 'good girls.' It's all a matter of taste. And perspective."
"Do you like bad boys or nice guys, John?"
John frowned up at him. "I prefer…women?"
"What are you at?"
"I want to see if most people prefer a vulgar, uncouth person to a relatively 'nice' one, despite posturing to the contrary. I want to see if brashness can work just as well as charm."
"You've already conducted this experiment. It's called your life."
Sherlock chortled, a sound both alluring and demonic at the same time, somehow.
"So you're going to go about insulting people?" John asked. "You already do that."
"No John, vulgarity. It's a very different thing. Don't be so daft."
John sighed, shrugged, and concentrated on the computer screen again.
Sherlock breezed out of the room, and from the kitchen came his triumphant shout, "This is going to be so fucking interesting!"
John blinked a few times.
Sherlock and John were in Lestrade's office, and the Detective Inspector was not pleased.
"This is the second time in a month, Sherlock," Lestrade said. "It's one thing if I invite you to a crime scene, or along on a case, but you can't just show up and insinuate yourself. There's certain protocol and you keep breaching it. It's either going to be my job or your head if you keep it up. Possibly both."
John sat in a comfy chair, sipping coffee from a paper cup, and though he was putting on a serious face, he was doing a little dance inside. Not that he particularly liked Sherlock getting into trouble, but a verbal spanking now and then was well-warranted. John had told him not to go, had berated him the entire way there, and gloated all the way home after they were thrown out. Sherlock never listened.
"I mean it, Sherlock." Lestrade picked up his own mug of coffee. "I want your word you won't do this again. Because next time," he fixed him with a stern gaze, "I'm going to let them arrest you."
Silence fell, in which Lestrade sipped from his mug and Sherlock, as he had been for the past ten minutes, continued to stare at the ceiling with his head thrown back and fingers steepled beneath his chin. John wasn't even sure he'd heard anything that had just been said.
But then Sherlock lowered his hands and sat up straight. He gripped the arms of the chair and gazed impassively at Lestrade.
"I'll tell you what I'd like to do, Detective Inspector," Sherlock said evenly. "I'd like to stand up, unzip my trousers, take my cock out, and piss right in your coffee."
John had paused with his cup halfway to his mouth at 'unzip my trousers.'
Lestrade stared at him, apparently too shocked for a moment to even change his facial expression. Then he arched an eyebrow. "What?"
"Yes," Sherlock said. "Stand up and piss right in it. You could stir it around like a fine gourmet cream and then drink it up. I imagine it would be bitter, slightly salty. Maybe with a touch of sweetness because I had some fruit this morning."
John didn't know how to process any of this. He just stared at the wall dumbly, trying to figure out how reality worked.
"Are you putting me on?" Lestrade asked.
"No," Sherlock said.
Silence fell again. After a very long, very awkward moment, Lestrade sat forward.
"Get the hell out of my office," he said lowly. And then, to John's shock, added, "Next interesting thing that comes across my desk, I'll call you."
As they left the office, John still couldn't figure out what to say.
"Well, well," Sherlock said, sounding self-satisfied. "That was terribly interesting."
They spent the next day at St. Bart's, as Sherlock had multiple samples from various cases to look over and for mysterious reasons, the people running the place still allowed him use of their very expensive, delicate equipment. John spent his time taking notes and organizing things, like a good assistant.
Molly was there as well, flitting around Sherlock like a moth to his bug zapper aura. She kept finding excuses to come in, so transparent even John could see right through them. On her third time in he could even smell she'd freshened her perfume.
"Brought you some more slides," she said brightly. Sherlock had his face buried in a microscope. "Never can have too many. Might need them. For something."
John wanted to ask her what exactly she saw in Sherlock. He had no charm to speak of, no moral character, and while it was true he cut a dashing figure the entire awkwardness of his being more than cancelled it out. John wondered if she was masochistic, had self-esteem issues, or just liked a challenge.
"Anything interesting in there?" she asked, leaning over next to him. Quite purposefully, it seemed.
Sherlock looked up from the microscope and down her shirt.
"Where did you purchase that bra?" he asked.
John was scribbling notes and stopped.
Molly jerked upright with a high-pitched giggle. "Oh, oops!" She adjusted her shirt. "Didn't mean for you to see that. But since you asked, Victoria's Secret. They had a sale. It's supposed to be, you know, uplifting." She smiled widely, cupping her hands in front of her breasts and sweeping them upward.
Sherlock stared at her chest for a moment.
"Do you know why heterosexual men find cleavage so compelling?" Sherlock asked her.
John looked on, listening, helpless.
Molly chuckled and stroked her hair back. "Isn't it something to do with nurturing? Reminds them of when they suckled as babies?"
"I suppose for some of them." Sherlock looked back into the microscope. "For me, it's because I love titty-fucking."
John dropped his pen.
Molly stood stock still, looking at first stunned, and then baffled. After a moment she tentatively asked, "What?"
"Yes," Sherlock said. "There's nothing more delicious than oiling up a woman's tits, squeezing them together in a nice slick valley, and thrusting my prick between them. It's quite nearly magical."
Molly still looked like someone had smacked her between the eyes with a sack of coins, which was an entirely appropriate reaction.
Silence descended, in which Sherlock continued staring into the microscope. Molly had every right to punch him. Instead, she walked tentatively behind him, and then to the door. Once there, she stopped and looked back.
"They have…these ones that push up and in, to enhance the cleavage," she said uncertainly. "They're still on sale. I could pop by after work and get one."
John stared at her.
Sherlock looked up from the microscope and flashed her what passed for a warm smile with him.
Molly blushed, bit her lower lip, and scurried out.
"Fascinating," Sherlock said, and returned to his work.
Lestrade promised an interesting case and they got one, quite fast. John wondered if he needed to start saying rude things to people at the surgery in order to get better hours.
The case involved a man being cut up and stuffed in a petrol drum, but no idea where he'd been murdered or who left the drum on a boat dock. Also, the dead man's fingerprints and dental records weren't returning any matches, which was the truly interesting part.
Sherlock wanted to inspect the area where they'd found the petrol drum. Scotland Yard's forensics team was already there and Anderson was in charge. Despite Lestrade's blessing, Anderson was not so eager to allow Sherlock access.
"There's nothing for you to see here," he said in his nasally, imperious voice. He was leaning in front of the gate to the dock, effectively blocking their way. "Go off and torment someone else."
"I'm sure there's plenty for me to see here," Sherlock said. "Killers often leave inadvertent clues at their dump spots."
"Which we'll find," Anderson said. "We're quite capable of doing these things, you know. We have been trained."
"Poorly," Sherlock said. He sighed and stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and looked around. "You always miss something…"
Anderson looked highly put-upon. He flashed John a dour look as well, obviously irritated at him if not for hanging out with Sherlock, then just for existing.
"Go away," Anderson told Sherlock. "We'll call you if we need you. Which is to say, when Hell freezes over."
Sherlock looked back at Anderson, the light in his sharp eyes changing as his gaze wandered over the shorter, squirrelly little man. Disturbingly, the look was almost solicitous.
"Anderson, I know what your problem is," Sherlock said.
"Oh, here we go." Anderson rolled his eyes.
"You need a blow job."
John should have seen it coming, but he didn't. It socked him in the gut, just like the other two times.
Anderson stared at Sherlock, eyes wide and expression a bit horrified.
"A good one," Sherlock said. "Not those crap ones Donovan gives you. A good, thorough cocksucking from a skilled mouth. Someone who can deep-throat you, who doesn't gag when you hit the back of their throat. Someone you can grab by the hair and really fuck their face. Someone who loves sucking cock and loves swallowing even more." Sherlock leaned forward. "Someone with a perfect mouth." He plumped his lips.
John looked down at the planks beneath his feet and screwed his face up, praying it was just a nightmare. Prayed really, really hard. Because oh God, he wasn't suggesting...
The quiet was unnerving, and John finally had to look up, one eye closed. Anderson was still staring at Sherlock.
Then he silently stepped aside and unlatched the gate.
Sherlock walked through briskly with a smile and a nod to Anderson. John dutifully followed.
As they strode down the dock, Sherlock gave a disgusted shiver.
"How very foul," he muttered. "He was starting to get an erection."
Mycroft showed up at the flat as he usually did around the first part of the month, with a cheque book for Sherlock. John never asked questions. Their bills were paid and whenever John used Sherlock's card, it seemed to be loaded with an unlimited supply of money. So John just offered Mycroft a seat and made him some tea.
"You could be a touch more grateful," Mycroft said to his brother, who was sat on the couch, face hidden behind a book and ignoring him. In fact, Sherlock hadn't said a word or so much as looked at Mycroft since he walked through the door, including when Mycroft tossed the cheque book on the coffee table in front of him.
"Don't mind him," John said, coming back in with the tea. "He's just preoccupied. Nice weather we've been having, hm?" If Sherlock couldn't be nice, he'd be nice enough for both of them.
"Have we?" Mycroft asked, and took the offered cup with a tiny smile. "And I know how my brother is, trust me."
John sat down across from Mycroft with his own cup.
Mycroft looked over at Sherlock, still hidden behind his book. "Mummy wants you to come for dinner."
"Make my excuses," Sherlock said disinterestedly.
"No, I won't this time." Mycroft took a sip of his tea, winced. "I'm out of excuses for you. You're coming this time, and you'll behave yourself. You won't upset her."
Sherlock lowered the book and looked at him.
"I'm not coming."
"Yes you are." Mycroft tilted his chin up. "And you'll talk about your interests, because she loves to hear about them, even the morbid ones. You'll make her happy. You'll make her feel she's involved in your life."
Sherlock put the book on his lap and gazed toward the windows.
"You know what I'm most interested in right now?" Sherlock asked.
John braced himself.
"What's that?" Mycroft asked, clearly not caring about the answer.
John made sure the cup wasn't anywhere near his mouth. He looked over and became deeply absorbed in the brickwork of the fireplace.
"I did it twelve times last week," Sherlock said. "I tried it at different times of day. I discovered in the morning I produce the most semen. I tried it with lubricant and without. I tried it both kneeling and lying down. I came to the conclusion, given all the data collected, I prefer masturbation first thing in the morning, kneeling, with lubricant. And with two fingers stuffed up my arse."
John tentatively looked back around and found Sherlock still staring toward the windows. Mycroft was staring at Sherlock, teacup lifted and poised in front of him.
John shifted in his chair. He now had a visual of Sherlock's morning masturbation firmly lodged in his brain and he wasn't sure how to feel about it.
After a long moment Mycroft took a deep drink of his tea and sat his cup aside. He got to his feet.
"I'll make your excuses." He nodded to John. "Good day, John."
As he left, Sherlock never even looked away from the windows.
"Quite rude of you," he finally said to John. "Not offering me any tea."
Sherlock was on John and Sarah's date with them, because of course he was. John had given up fighting him. He found if he didn't try to keep him away and let the inevitable happen, there was less agony involved. They'd both learned how to ignore him as if he wasn't there, as they were doing tonight, despite the fact he was sat between them in the booth, not eating but texting.
"This was a good choice of restaurant," Sarah said through the Great Wall of Sherlock. "I love Mediterranean food."
"Mm," John said in agreement.
After a few minutes, John decided to bring He Who Must Not Be Named or Even Looked At into the conversation, despite his reservations.
"Sherlock is conducting an experiment," John said.
"Is he?" Sarah asked. "What sort of experiment?"
"A vulgarity experiment."
Sherlock lowered his phone for a moment, scowled as though they were bothering him by talking, and then went back to texting.
"What's a vulgarity experiment?" Sarah asked.
"He says rude things to people and manages to get his way. It's quite…well, it's insane, actually."
"It's a psychological experiment," Sherlock offered.
Sarah looked at Sherlock. "What sort of rude things do you say?"
"He threatened to piss in Lestrade's coffee," John said. "And told Molly Hooper he wanted to titty-fuck her."
"I did not tell her I wanted to titty-fuck her." Sherlock lowered his phone again. "I said I enjoyed titty-fucking."
Sarah cracked up laughing. At least she had a sense of humor. That had to be the only reason she was sticking around and putting up with this.
"It's not funny," Sherlock told her.
"But it is." She continued chuckling. "Especially since it's clear you don't like tits."
Sherlock looked at her, expression intrigued. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, come on."
It was John's turn to laugh.
"You're very selectively observant," Sherlock said, going back to his texting.
"And what does that mean?" Sarah asked.
Sherlock smirked with one corner of his mouth. "Tell me Sarah, does John enjoy giving it to you from behind? Is it his favorite position, doggy style?"
John snarled. "That's enough, Sherlock!"
"It's all right," Sarah said. "I want to be part of the vulgarity experiment."
"Does he like to bend you over and pound you nice and solidly from behind?" Sherlock didn't look away from his phone. "Does he like it rough and hard?"
"He does actually," Sarah said. "I enjoy it myself."
"You give him a lot of blow jobs too, I bet. He's quite fond of them."
John put his fork down nosily and slid to the end of the booth.
"That's it, we're going," he announced. "Sarah, get your coat. I'm not sitting here and listening to this. She doesn't need to be part of your bloody vulgarity experiment." He stood up. "You're not trying to get anything from her."
"Aren't I?" Sherlock looked up, his eyes glittering.
Sarah slid out of the booth, smirking as she gathered her coat.
"Aren't you going to pay?" Sherlock asked as John helped her put it on.
"No, you are," John said, and took her arm. "Hope you brought your wallet this time."
John had no idea Sally Donavan had so much upper body strength. The fact she bodily moved Sherlock--by the lapels of his coat--into the next room and slammed him down in a chair told John the fun and games were over. Sherlock even had the decency to look mildly impressed.
"If you come out of this room, freak," Sally said, finger stuck in his face, "you will be arrested. Do you hear what I'm saying?"
"So what, I'll get another ASBO to add to my collection?" Sherlock asked.
"You can't mess with the evidence!" she snarled. "You don't have that kind of clearance!"
There was a man lying dead in the next office over. Sherlock didn't seem to care the police were trying to do their job and had 'accidentally' pushed the presiding officer out of the way.
"I'm allowed to be here," Sherlock said. "Lestrade said I could come."
"I don't care what he said!" Sally yelled. "You're stepping over the line."
John didn't think she could be more furious. It turned out she could, when she got the order to come back to the room and babysit Sherlock until they moved the body out.
"This is so degrading," she said, leaning against the door. John was sat on the other side of Sherlock, just in case he tried to crawl out the window and shimmy over to the next office. "I absolutely hate you," she said. "Do you know that?"
Sherlock sighed, sounding bored.
The moments ticked away in silence. John could hear muffled voices through the wall.
"I'm going to start a petition to have you banned from all police matters," Sally, seemingly getting angrier in the lull, informed Sherlock.
Sherlock rubbed his temple. "Oh, cunts," he muttered.
"What?" Sally snapped her gaze to him.
John glared at him.
"I said oh, crumpets," Sherlock replied.
Sally stared at him. John asked whatever god might be listening to keep Sherlock from saying another word.
"I don't know who you think you are," Sally said. "Why you think you can just come along and do whatever you like."
"If the police weren't always cocking things up, I wouldn't have to."
"Cocking things up?"
"Blocking. I said blocking things up. Getting in the way of the real work."
Her glare was hot enough to burn down the building.
"Sherlock," John muttered.
"There's too many rules and regulations," Sherlock said. "Investigations have become nothing but idiots with insufficient training and no real observational skills standing around twiddling their thumbs." He added, softer, "in their arses."
"Stop it!" Sally barked at him. "I know what you're doing!"
"You don't like dirty words?" Sherlock asked. "Cunts, cocks, arses."
"Do you have Tourette's now or something? Is that your new self-diagnosis?"
"Sherlock!" John said. "Enough!"
"Tourette's doesn't actually manifest with profuse swearing in most cases," Sherlock said. "Only stupid, felching, snowballing, cum-gargling idiots think that sort of thing."
"Do you want to be shot?" Sally asked.
Sherlock smirked and folded his hands behind his head, leaning back. "You don't like wet, slick, throbbing, gaping cunts?"
"I'm going to fucking kill you."
"Do you prefer hard, pulsing, dripping cocks instead?"
Sally snarled like an enraged animal and curled up her fists.
"Nice, tight arseholes? Big bouncing tits? Huge hairy ball sacks? Are you going to punch me or lube one of those fists up and put it up my arse?"
As it turned out, she was going to punch him. Hard enough he toppled over backward out of his chair. John, for a moment, had a burst of panic and almost rushed to his aid. But then he remembered he entirely deserved to be right where he was.
Sherlock groaned and rubbed his jaw. "Well," he said, voice a bit slurred, "looks like I'm not the one getting the ASBO. For assault, no less."
"Fuck!" Sally screamed.
John was so angry when they got home he couldn't even think straight. He flung his coat on the couch and went to make some tea. Entirely for him. None for Sherlock.
By the time he stalked back into the living room, Sherlock was sitting placidly in front of his laptop as if the events of the evening hadn't taken place at all. The only evidence they had was his swollen jaw. Not too bad, really. He'd have some mild bruising, but no lasting damage. John couldn't help playing the doctor, even if he did wish she had hit him hard enough to take out a few teeth.
"This vulgarity experiment is over," John informed him, as he sat down on the couch with his tea. "And I mean that in no uncertain terms. If you continue with this, I will leave. I'll get another flat mate."
Sherlock looked up at him with a piercing gaze. "Why does it bother you so much?"
"Are you serious?" John asked in disbelief. "You're difficult enough to endure on a normal day. Adding this to it just makes you a menace. I won't have any more of it. And if you ever speak like that to Sarah again, Sally's punch will be a swat on the hand in comparison."
Sherlock looked back at his computer. "The only vulgar thing I did to Sarah was point out her tunnel vision."
"Yes, and what was that about? Her 'selective observation?' What did that even mean?"
"It means she can readily see I sexually prefer men but she refuses to see it about you."
"Where do you get that idea!"
"I'm sure in your youth it was difficult to admit because your parents were already not quite accepting of your gay sister. Didn't want to add to the tension in the house. In the military, it's a bit difficult to be openly gay. Your circumstances have prevented you from pursuing your true desires for a long time."
John just stared at him. Finally, after a minute of ringing silence, he stood up.
"I wasn't always at home or in the military," John said tightly.
Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Ah, I see."
"And I'm not gay." He held a hand up when Sherlock opened his mouth. "There is such a thing as bisexual, you git."
"There is, but you're not. You're more inclined to men."
"I'm dating Sarah!"
"And you prefer sex with her in a position that enables you to indulge in fantasy and not be readily confronted with her gender."
John knew how Sally must have felt earlier. His own fists were curling at his sides.
"If this is part of your vulgarity experiment," John said, "you've really gone over the line."
"No experiment. If this is really how you feel, maybe you're the one being vulgar. Toward Sarah. Not to mention yourself."
"You have no right to talk to me like this. You shouldn't say these things."
"No, I shouldn't say a lot of things, but you let me. You make no effort whatsoever to curb my behavior. Which means you're either afraid of me, which is preposterous, a complete pushover--which I know is not the case--or you're attracted to me."
John spluttered, again. That was twice in less than five minutes.
"I'm not attracted to you!"
"Ah, so you are."
"I said I'm not!"
"Immediate, vehement denial." Sherlock looked superior as always. "You have little to no skill with pretense. Weren't raised that way. Never fully grasped it. You've always been a terrible liar. Another skill you admire in me. Increases the attraction."
"I'm going for some air." John turned and grabbed his coat. "I can't stand here and listen to this after the day you've put me through."
"Run from the truth. But it'll always be breathing down your neck."
John jerked his coat on. "Sherlock, I wouldn't date you if you were the last man on earth."
Sherlock flashed him a pleased smile. "Good thing I'm not the last man on earth, then."
John thundered down the stairs.
John was sat sulking on the front steps an hour later when Mrs. Hudson came out, shawl wrapped around her shoulders, looking concerned.
"Oh, John love. What are you doing sitting out here in the dark? You'll catch a chill."
John sighed, chin on his fist. "I'll be all right, Mrs. Hudson. I'm not cold."
She closed the door and stepped up beside him. "You've had a row with him, I can tell. What did he do this time?"
John sighed again.
"It's nothing, Mrs. Hudson. It'll be all right."
"I'm not going to come down there and sit with you on the cold cement, not with my hip. But you ought to tell me. Don't worry, I know he can be difficult. And you look like you could use an ear."
John looked up at her, unsure.
"Go on dear," she said gently. "It'll be better if you get it out. I won't tell a soul."
"I don't think this is something I can talk to you about."
"Of course you can. You can tell me anything!" Her smile insisted he really could.
John hesitated a moment more, but he really did need an ear.
"He can't leave anything alone," John said. "He's always got to go about announcing everything, dragging it out in the open. It's not as if I haven't always known." John paused, but his resentment was rising and the next words came out in a rush. "But it's my bloody business, isn't it? It's my sexuality. I'll do what I want with it." He realized he had given far too much away, but Mrs. Hudson was still listening avidly. "If I want to date a woman, I will. And if I want to date a man, I'll do that too. When I want to. When I feel like it."
"Oh, dear." She sighed and tugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "Well, that's Sherlock for you. I think he has a thing for confused men. His last boyfriend wasn't certain about himself either. Sherlock set him right though, in short time. Not gently, mind you. Sherlock won't nudge if he can push."
John boggled at her. "His last boyfriend?"
"Yes, the one before you."
"I'm not his boyfriend!"
She gave him a tiny smile.
"I'm not his boyfriend!" John hauled himself to his feet. "Nor will I ever be! He's irrational, pushy, morally stunted, and completely overwhelming. He'd drive me to drink. And--how many bloody boyfriends has he had?!"
Mrs. Hudson was still smiling. "Oh, only a few in the time I've known him. I don't know, before that. All very nice men."
"Nice," John said dryly.
"In their own way."
"Nice men dated Sherlock Holmes. Anyone dated Sherlock Holmes?"
"The few I got to know seemed to think he was quite a catch. They all ended up broken-hearted, of course. He loves his work and none of them could ever really compete with it. Or join him in it. Shame. One of them went on to marry a police officer, though. Had a big wedding. Sherlock got an invitation but he couldn't attend."
John wondered if he'd somehow landed in a parallel universe. Then the door opened and Sherlock stepped out, wearing his coat, his scarf around his neck.
"Ah, John, there you are," he said. "Let's go have ice cream."
John was still two steps behind whatever the hell was happening to his life.
"Ice cream," he said. "At nine p.m.?"
"Yes," Sherlock said. "Problem?"
"Where the hell are we getting ice cream at 9 p.m.? Hold on. Why the hell do we want ice cream at 9 p.m.?"
"Isn't that what people do, have sweets and talk about their feelings? I think we should talk about our feelings. Your feelings."
"If they're sixteen they might get ice cream, yes. We're in our thirties."
Mrs. Hudson was smiling fondly as she looked on.
"Should we go to a pub then?" Sherlock asked. "Come back and have drunken sex?"
John glared at him a moment, then shifted his jaw and looked away. "Maybe. We'll talk about it."
"Good," Sherlock said. "We'll be off then. Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson."
"Oh, before you go, Sherlock," she said. "I have something for you." She slipped a hand in her pocket and withdrew an envelope. She held it out to Sherlock and he took it.
"It's a bill for the damages," she said. "From your little fire last month. I expect it paid by the time rent is due."
Sherlock scoffed. "Mrs. Hudson, that fire barely damaged anything. It merely singed--"
Mrs. Hudson leaned toward him and spoke lowly, "You'll pay the fucking thing. Or I'll beat your arse until your cock retracts so far into your stomach you'll be pissing out your mouth for the next month. You won't be coercing anybody out of the closet with your goods stuck up under your lower intestine."
John gaped at her as she smiled, patted Sherlock's shoulder, and toddled back inside. She waved to them.
"Have fun at the pub, boys! Don't be too noisy coming back in."
After she closed the door, Sherlock sighed and tucked the envelope into his coat. "She does have a way with words. I'll have Mycroft send her a cheque, with a bit extra on top."
As they started down the street, John still trying to process the entire…week, really, Sherlock hummed to himself.
"How many boyfriends have you had?" John asked.
"I never kiss and tell, John. That would be rude."
John eyed him. "Did you put all of them through vulgarity experiments?"
"Oh no, no. This was the first one. And it was quite successful, I think. I got my answer."
"What answer is that?"
"You do like bad boys."