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The universe hated him, John decided. He groaned and tried to sit up without jostling his head too much. He squinted against the sun shining through the blinds in an unfamiliar room. He would kill for a glass of water and some aspirin. As soon as he found out whose sofa he was invading so that he could start with the killing part.
John stood up and made a wobbly step towards what he assumed was the bathroom. Which made it pretty clear that there was no killing to be had, unless he wanted to die as well. His own body was sabotaging him. With vindictive cruelty.
“Well, good morning there!” Greg, the traitor, said cheerfully right next to him, making John jump and glare with a betrayed expression. He might as well have shouted.
“Really?” John croaked and promptly groaned again. “You’re enjoying my misery.”
“Well, I’m not gonna deny that,” Greg told him with a wide grin. “I believe you were going somewhere?”
John sent him another betrayed look and continued towards the bathroom. He relieved himself and then let the water from the tap fall directly into his mouth until his stomach protested. He left the bathroom and found Greg in the kitchen.
“So this is yours, then?” he asked. He fell onto a chair, crossed his arms on the table and put his head on them.
“Yes,” Greg said. He started opening and closing cupboards, and taking out pots and pans. It made a horrible noise that assaulted John's ears. “Eggs alright?”
“Just kill me,” John moaned. “Or at least whisper. Could you whisper?”
Greg, a bloody wanker that he was, put a pan on the stove with a loud bang, rummaged in the cutlery drawer for a small eternity and then, he whispered, “Of course.”
John banged his head on the table, which, in hindsight, was a very bad idea, and glared at Greg’s back.
“You know that torture is illegal, right?”
Greg huffed and looked at John with raised eyebrows.
“Aren’t we melodramatic today?” he said, still whispering while his stupid feet squeaked on the floor on his way to the fridge. Then he started humming.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” John groaned. “Just wait until I’m well enough to kill you. See how you like that.”
Greg pulled out some eggs and closed the fridge with his shoulder, which only made everything in said fridge clink together to make John’s misery even greater.
“I’m pretty sure that’s illegal,” he said.
“I hate you,” John told him firmly, while Greg resumed his humming. “Why did you let me drink so much?”
Greg snorted.
"You certainly didn't need any encouragement,” he said, mixing eggs in the pan. “And no one could stop John Watson on a mission.”
“A mission?” John’s head shot up at that. Big mistake. He hissed and massaged his temples. “I’m fucking dying here. If you don’t give me some aspirin right bloody now, I’m going to come back and haunt you until you expire.”
“That’s something to look forward to, I suppose,” Greg teased him, but dutifully put two aspirins and a glass of water in front of John. “I’d like to see Sherlock’s reaction to that.”
John groaned and downed the foul tasting elixir in one go.
“If you just poisoned me, Sherlock will know,” John warned him, pointing at the glass. “And he will demand retribution.”
Greg chuckled over the sound of frying eggs. John scowled at his back. There was nothing even remotely funny about this situation and John was going to make Greg regret it when he least expected it.
“Big words already, I see,” Greg said and looked at John with a brow raised in silent amusement.
John glared and huffed, and grumbled, but it only served to twist Greg’s lips into a satisfied grin. After he started humming in tune with the loudest kettle in existence, John gave up and sighed.
“What was that about a mission?” he asked, sitting back and folding his arms in front of him. He wasn’t above a minor sulk once in a while. And really, Greg should be grateful it’s not Sherlock’s hangover he had to deal with.
“Yeah, just a second,” Greg told him distractedly while dividing the eggs onto plates. “Here you go, mate.”
A plate of scrambled eggs and two slices of bread materialised in front of him, followed by a mug of steaming tea. His stomach immediately let him know that last night’s activities were not appreciated and a sudden revenge might be taking place. Still, the eggs looked nice and he should probably eat something.
He picked up a fork and made himself swallow the first bite.
“Thanks,” he said around a forced smile that probably looked more like a grimace, if Greg's amusement was anything to go by.
“Well, don’t be so happy about it,” Greg said with a smirk. “I’m in possession of incriminating evidence and I won’t hesitate to use it.”
John groaned.
“Yes, that mission you mentioned. Can you please bloody tell me what you’re on about?”
“I suppose I could just post it on YouTube. Then you’d find out along with the rest of the world.”
“Greg...” John drawled in his best threatening voice but either Greg developed immunity to it or it was as weak as he felt at the moment.
“You lost a drinking contest,” Greg told him with a grin wide enough to make John’s eyes hurt even more.
“I don’t think I did,” John said. It would be unfair if all his pain was for nothing after all. “I’m pretty good at those.”
Greg only snorted, loudly enough to start a war in John's head.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Greg said. John glared at him but it just made his eyes water and had no effect on his backstabbing bastard of a friend. “I suspected you might not remember it, so I filmed it for you.” The traitor handed him his phone with the video ready to play.
“Of course you did,” John muttered. This tendency Greg had for recording embarrassing moments of their lives needed to stop. He should enlist Sherlock’s help and beat the inspector with his own weapon. That would teach him.
Reluctantly, John pressed play. At first there was just a blur of lights and voices as Greg tried to get the camera into position. He was probably already after his second pint, judging from the evil giggle coming off-camera. Slowly, things came into focus and John recognized himself standing by the bar next to Donovan. A few policemen and women circled around the tables, as was usual during these outings.
“No, come on!” John heard himself say with an incredulous look at Donovan’s vodka shot.
“Oh, I swear it’s true,” Sally answered with a smirk. “I’m sure I could drink you under the table anytime.”
Video John predictably scoffed at that.
“Let’s find out then,” Video John said, already signalling for the bartender. “But let’s make it more interesting.”
Donovan’s eyes focused on him with sudden intensity and, God, why didn’t he take that as a hint to get the fuck out of this situation?
“Like a bet?” she asked.
Video John nodded. He thought for a moment and then he smirked.
“The loser has to kiss Sherlock Holmes on a crime scene.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Real John exclaimed, only half paying attention to the rest of the video. His head started pounding with horror and his stomach was making its displeasure known.
Greg took the phone from John’s unresisting fingers and did something on it while John sat in complete shock, wishing he could just drown in his tea. It would be slightly less mortifying.
“And for the winning take...”
He placed his mobile back in front of John and played another video. This time, John could admire himself slumped awkwardly in their usual booth, his head thrown back, his eyes closed and his mouth wide open. He very nearly did end up under the table while Sally sat on the other side, calmly toasting Greg behind the camera with another shot.
John could only be grateful for the poor lighting and Greg’s unstable hand (either from alcohol or laughing). He would probably stick his face in his plate if he caught a sight of drool.
“Why did I think it was a good idea?” he whined and covered his face with his hands.
“I can help you with that,” Greg said cheerfully and John hated him. He hated him nearly as much in that moment as he hated himself. “You told me that at least four times in the pub and then some more when I was dragging you to and from the taxi.”
John groaned.
“Oh my God.”
“I believe the precise words were ‘I wanna see how many times he can blink’,” Greg told him with a shrug. “Which I assume means something to you.”
John made a noise deep in his throat.
The universe definitely hated him.
***
Avoidance wasn’t the foolproof method of dealing with problems that John hoped it would be. Not when you lived with the most observant man on the planet, who sent you assessing looks when you so much as squirmed. Not when your inspector friend had embarrassing video evidence and absolutely no qualms about using it for his own amusement. And definitely, definitely not when the woman that could just as easily turn your life into hell, sent you progressively more evil grins every time she saw you.
It was a miracle that John managed to avoid the matter for an entire week.
But then Greg, in his usual helpful way, told him, “Sally’s quite busy scheming. You wouldn’t know anything about it, right?”
The spark in his eyes that followed this seemingly innocuous question didn’t bode well for John. If Donovan thought she could make even more damage, if Greg thought she could, then John should probably just stick to the original conditions of the bet and get it over with already.
So he went back to Baker Street, packed his bags, checked his will, called his sister and started researching places that might just be beyond Mycroft’s jurisdiction. Russia suddenly seemed like a safe place to be, or maybe he could just build a nice, cosy igloo near the South Pole. He was quite sure Mycroft wouldn’t bother with the legwork there.
Sherlock might, though. But somehow, that didn’t sound so terrifying, even if it would definitely be more painful. John came too close to losing his best friend too many times now, and if he managed to lose him permanently because of one stupid drunken bet, he deserved what would come to him.
As luck would have it, Greg called with a new case the very next day. John swallowed and lagged after Sherlock who was his usual delightful bundle of excitement. At least until they were ten minutes into the taxi ride when he turned the whole power of his deduction gaze onto John.
“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked.
“Nothing,” John said, perhaps too quickly. “What do you mean? Everything’s fine.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at that and, yeah, maybe John wasn’t the best liar in existence.
“Are you ill?” Sherlock asked.
“No.”
“Hurt?”
“What? No!”
“Hungry?”
“Nope. Sherlock—”
“Have you been having nightmares again?”
John sighed.
“I’m okay. Really,” he said and didn’t let Sherlock contradict him. “It’s nothing serious. Just... just drop it, alright?”
Sherlock pursed his lips but then he nodded.
“In that case, I suggest you put your moping on hold,” he said, pretending to be cross. “We’re here.”
Sherlock then practically jumped out of the cab, leaving John to pay.
The first thing John saw after walking under the police tape was a video camera. Not even a cheap pocket one that John knew Greg owned, but an honest to God, huge, professional video camera sitting on a tripod. This couldn’t be good. Especially when both Greg and Donovan were standing suspiciously close to it.
Sherlock was already examining the body, muttering to himself. Or possibly to John. Even though he seemed much more aware of John’s presence or absence these days, an interesting murder mystery could still entirely command his attention. So John took a deep breath and approached his least favourite people on the planet.
“What is this then?” he asked Greg, pointedly ignoring Donovan’s little smirk. “Are you finally making a documentary about how other people solve your problems?”
He thought that might rile them up a bit, but instead they just looked delighted with themselves. Both of them. God. What was his life?
“We’re definitely documenting things,” Donovan said with an evil glint in her eyes. “Unless you want to reschedule. The violinist we wanted to hire couldn’t be here today, but I’m sure she will be free next time.”
“I hear she’s particularly good at slow, wistful tunes,” Greg added and, bloody hell, he was taking pictures with his stupid mobile camera.
“I hate you both,” John muttered darkly. “You do realize there’s still a dead body lying there, right? Someone has actually been murdered, for Christ’s sake!”
“Oh, but we have the great consulting detective on the case!” Greg said with a grin.
John just groaned. He had already planned to get this over with as soon as possible and now he was reassured in his conviction. No violinist would ever serenade him when he kissed Sherlock Holmes!
Which would most certainly be just the once before his long and painful death, so the point was moot anyway.
“John!” came an annoyed call from a glaring detective. “I need you here!”
“Excuse me, I’ve been summoned,” John said, both grateful and terrified.
“Oh yes,” Donovan snickered. “He needs you.”
John straightened into his full height, squared his shoulders and glared at both Greg and Sally.
“When this is over,” he said in his best calmly threatening voice. “I’m going to hunt you down.”
He turned on his heel and marched over to Sherlock, followed by chuckles and giggles. He missed his army days when people actually found him intimidating.
“What were you doing back there?” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes at him. “It’s not the time for social niceties. I need you to establish the cause of death.”
“I can tell you mine,” John said without humour.
He ignored the confused look Sherlock gave him, stepped right into Sherlock’s space and pressed their lips together.
John had never in his life had an epiphany. He witnessed it often enough while working with Sherlock, but John's own mind liked to tackle a problem following all the logical steps in a linear progression rather than having dozens of ideas circulating in his head and coming together to form a perfect solution. His mind was perfectly simple and manageable like that.
So, to have a fucking epiphany for the first time in his life while kissing Sherlock Holmes because of a drunken bet was pretty bloody inconvenient, even if he should have probably expected that. The moment his lips touched Sherlock's, John's mind went into sensory overload. It processed the smell of Sherlock's ridiculous hair product, the sight of his eyes widening and then fluttering shut, the surprised little noise he made after John deepened the kiss, the still strong taste of coffee in his breath, the smooth texture of Sherlock’s curls when John’s hands combed through them without his conscious decision. John’s brain took it all in and gave John feedback: this was right.
And just like that, John experienced a bloody paradigm shift. He didn’t just love his best friend; he was in love with him.
“Um...” John muttered when they parted, not sure how to react. He couldn’t look Sherlock in the eye just yet; he wasn’t sure he could handle the rejection right after that stupid epiphany. He had such a shitty timing. “So that was... er...”
He didn’t quite know what to say next but, thankfully, he didn’t have to. There were hands curling desperately in his jacket and pulling him back into the kiss, which resulted in clashing teeth and bumping noses. John gently adjusted the angle and shivered when Sherlock’s large hands came up to cup his face. He shifted impossibly closer and let himself respond in kind until they both became too overwhelmed to continue and just stood there in a tight embrace.
“I should probably warn you,” John said into Sherlock’s chest. “Lestrade and Donovan are filming this.”
Sherlock tensed but then relaxed almost immediately.
"I don't care," he said and inhaled the smell of John's hair.
"But—"
"I don't care," he repeated and punctuated the statement by kissing the top of John's head.
"Alright."
It was just as well. John found himself utterly unable to let go.
"What brought this on?" Sherlock asked.
"Er... I..." John was rather hoping he wouldn't have to explain himself. But Sherlock should know the whole story, and some additional conversation would probably be advisable as well. "I'll tell you over dinner?"
Sherlock smiled into his hair.
"Aaand cut!" Greg yelled from his spot beside the camera, making John jump and Sherlock glare. "Wonderful performance, boys. Full marks!"
"Jesus..." John muttered and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You need to help me plot my revenge," he told Sherlock.
"Done. Shall we go?"
John disentangled himself from Sherlock's arms and stared up at him in confusion.
"We're on a crime scene," he said.
"Yes."
"With an interesting murder."
"Well," Sherlock drawled. "Hardly that interesting. It was obviously the brother."
"How do you know that?" John asked with a small smile.
"I can tell you that now or we could go and get dinner."
"Really?" John wouldn't have expected Sherlock to pass on the chance to show off his brilliance. But maybe they both rearranged their priorities at some point. "Later then."
Sherlock nodded, then grimaced at the sight of Lestrade coming towards them with a shit-eating grin.
"Hey, lovebirds!" Greg cheered. "How are we feeling?"
"Like we could use some damn privacy," John said mildly. Donovan appeared in his field of vision. She looked equal parts smug and traumatized.
"Too bad you're at a crime scene then," Greg said and snapped a photo with his phone.
"Oh for... seriously!" John made an attempt at catching the mobile but he didn't succeed.
"Arrest the brother, Inspector," Sherlock said coolly. "I'm sure even you can figure out why."
He took John's hand and started walking away from the body.
"Wait, you're leaving?" Greg asked them incredulously.
"Mm... I rather think we are," Sherlock called over his shoulder.
They walked under the police tape still holding hands. Sherlock guided them through the labyrinth of narrow alleys until he nodded to himself and stopped.
"Sherlock?" John started, searching his friend's face. "Why are we here?"
Sherlock just grinned and handed John... a memory card.
"Oh. Oh!" John answered with a smile of his own. "When did you get this? We weren't even close to the camera!"
"It wasn't in the camera anymore," Sherlock told him, pleased with himself. "Lestrade had it in his coat."
"So you pickpocketed him."
"Well, he was being annoying," Sherlock said and raised his eyebrows meaningfully.
John giggled with mirth, slumping against the wall, and soon enough Sherlock joined him with his deep chuckle. And then snogged John until he could barely breathe.
"Did you also happen to nick Greg's credit card?" John asked, presenting his neck to the wandering lips.
"Perish the thought!" said Sherlock with a faux scandalized expression. "Lestrade has generously agreed to pay for our dinner today," he added and waved a credit card between them.
John giggled again.
"Hungry?" he asked.
"Starving."