Fic: Alternate Hypotheses (2/5)
Title: Alternate Hypotheses
Rating: T
Genres: Romance, Crack
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Wordcount: 1,819 (this chapter); 13,400 total
Beta: percygranger
Apparently, Sherlock is experimenting on John without his consent. John is going to kill him. Right after he makes a cup of tea.
Chapter 1: John, Guinea Pig
Chapter 2: Uncooperative Test Subjects
Unlike Sherlock, John didn't tend to look for complicated solutions to problems. He was a firm believer in Occam's razor. When in doubt, the simplest solution was probably the correct one.
And although there were many and varied possible explanations for Sherlock's dilated pupils, the most likely explanation was a simple one.
The three possibilities John knew of that caused pupil dilation were as follows:
Sherlock had recently suffered head trauma;
Sherlock was under the effects of some sort of drug; or
Sherlock was experiencing the effects of naturally released oxytocin.
In layman's terms:
Sherlock was concussed;
Sherlock was high; or
Sherlock was attracted to someone in the immediate vicinity.
It was easy enough to eliminate the options. John was fairly certain that Sherlock had suffered no recent head blows, nor had he ingested anything more stimulating than caffeine.
So Sherlock was attracted to him, then. John tried not to feel too insufferably smug about the fact.
***
On a sunny afternoon four days later, John was sitting in his chair, idly picturing Sherlock in a towel and wondering how he'd react if John were to pop out of the shower without one, when a visitor knocked on the door to 221B.
Sherlock, previously laying stretched out on the sofa with his arms folded across his stomach, leapt up and stormed over to the door, dressing gown flapping wildly about his legs.
Instead of opening the door, however, he fastened the deadbolt.
"Mycroft?" John hazarded.
A voice came through the closed door, muffled but still sharp with public school articulation. "Don't be childish, Sherlock."
"Go away!" Sherlock shouted through the door.
"Oh, for God's sake," John said, "just let him in and be done with it."
Sherlock ignored John and stalked back to the sofa, where he flopped bonelessly, emitting a dramatic sigh.
John really shouldn't find that attractive.
Why did he find that attractive?
Mycroft cleared his throat as the deadbolt unlocked and the door swung open. He slipped the door key into his left breast pocket with something resembling a smirk.
"John, delightful as always to see you. How have you been?"
John managed a strained smile in reply. "Fine, thanks. Tea?"
Mycroft smiled, wolf-like, as he settled into Sherlock's chair. "Tea would be lovely, thank you."
John kept half an ear open for the brothers' bickering as he puttered about the kitchen. When the flat was quiet once more, he poked his head back into the sitting room. "Mycroft gone already?"
Sherlock, now perched on the sofa with his legs drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his knees, scowled back at John. "If only. He's relieving himself. I've no idea why he couldn't wait until he got back to his office."
John rolled his eyes as he retreated. "Too much information, Sherlock, thanks."
When he came back into the sitting room, three mugs of steaming Earl Grey in hand, Mycroft was back in Sherlock's chair, and Sherlock looked even more hunched into himself than before, chin resting on his knees and shoulders drawn up almost to his ears.
"This is beneath my attention, Mycroft! Why did you even bother coming here?"
Mycroft simply took the cup John offered him and took a smooth sip, not even glancing in John's direction. "You have no cases on at the moment, Sherlock. I thought that perhaps a matter of national security would be enough to intrigue you."
"Apparently not," Sherlock snapped.
Mycroft set the mug down on the table and rose to his feet all in one smooth movement. "Very well. I doubt that wasting more of your valuable time will be of benefit to either of us."
"Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Mycroft."
Mycroft simply nodded once towards John and swept out of the room, umbrella dangling from one hand elegantly.
"Good riddance," Sherlock muttered as the door clicked softly shut behind his brother.
"Sherlock," John said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice, "you can't keep doing that to your brother. For one thing, we could use the money."
Sherlock merely flopped sideways onto the sofa and did his best impression of a Salvador Dali painting, practically melting over the side, his back bent at an awkward angle. "It was obvious, John. Besides, I don't trust him. For all I know, it was just a ploy to plant more bugs in the flat."
It took a moment for Sherlock's words to register. "Wait, what? Bugs? You're not serious, are you?"
Unfortunately, Sherlock looked rather too thoughtful to be joking. "Hmmm. He went to the toilet. I'll have to check there as well."
"Wait, you think he bugged the loo?" John could feel his face heating up as he pictured Mycroft in front of a bank of monitors showing John wanking off in the shower from various angles. "What the hell is wrong with your family?"
Sherlock shrugged and waved his hand in the air as though he were fanning away the smell Mycroft had left behind. "Don't worry, I'll be thorough. You won't have to worry about preserving your modesty from my brother's prying eyes." He smirked at John. "He'll be sorely disappointed, I'm sure."
John would never be able to wank in the shower again. He turned and went back to the kitchen. More than one cup of tea would be required to wipe that particular image from his brain.
***
John was going slowly mad.
It was all the fault of this bloody experiment.
It had been three weeks since he'd gone to the lab with Sherlock. At first, Sherlock would spend massive amounts of time cooped up in his room, doing God-knows-what, until John was able to lure him out. The flat had certainly been more peaceful. Fewer gruesome experiments. No corpses. Sherlock wasn't trying to steal his gun and shoot holes in the wall, or flying about the flat looking for his smokes. There were even fewer body parts in the fridge.
In fact, Sherlock had been quite pleasant the past few weeks, with the exception of placing those toes in John's jar of raspberry jam.
After Mycroft came 'round the flat and Sherlock made that quip about the cameras, John started paying extra attention.
Apparently Mycroft wasn't the only one to plant cameras in the flat.
For the last three weeks, whenever they came up the seventeen steps to the flat, Sherlock would always, always, let John go first up the stairs. When they were in the kitchen, Sherlock would stand in one of three positions, and he'd subtly change his body language when John was in front of the cooker, making tea. In the sitting room, he always tried to get John to sit if he was pacing the room.
And when Sherlock was around John, well, he was... quite attentive.
It was flattering, really. Being the centre of Sherlock's attention, for once. Even on cases, Sherlock would always be looking at John. They'd been spending more time together.
From this, John had concluded that there were five cameras hidden about the flat, that Sherlock knew of their locations, and more importantly, he wanted John to be filmed by them.
Of course, the best revenge would be to ruin Sherlock's data collection. So when he made tea, he angled his head down. When he sat in his chair, he always focused on his laptop or a newspaper.
He could tell he was succeeding in his goal when Sherlock would start pouting from his spot on the sofa.
The longer John could drag this out, the better off he'd be.
As soon as Sherlock determined the source of his infatuation ("call it what it is," a traitorous voice whispered inside John's head) he would be off to bigger, better things. And, to be honest, John rather liked this version of Sherlock.
He was quiet, focused, and, well...
He was a bit obsessed with John.
John didn't mind.
In fact, he rather liked it.
And he found himself thinking of Sherlock even more often.
Like right now, for instance, at work, when he should be filling out paperwork in between appointments.
Why was it that he couldn't get the man out of his head? Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Every time his mobile buzzed, his heart leapt with the idiotic hope that it would be a text from Sherlock.
John's phone buzzed in his pocket.
God, it was probably Harry. She'd called and texted yesterday to complain about Clara and her life and why was it John could have better luck with his relationships, when he wasn't even gay. And John hadn't even bothered to whip out the tired party line, just told her not to call at work and hung up on her.
But it might be Sherlock.
He pulled out his mobile, trying not to get his hopes up, and when he turned on the screen, he couldn't help the grin that spread across his face.
Bored. SH
Right. Best gather his thoughts before he said something ridiculous.
And what do you expect me to do about it, exactly? JW
John just clutched his phone like a giddy school girl, awaiting Sherlock's response. God, he was ridiculous. What was wrong with him?
Less than five seconds after setting down his phone on the table, it buzzed with a reply.
Give me a case. SH
John snorted.
Sorry, I think you have the wrong number. Unless you're looking to solve the case of the missing semi-skimmed, try Lestrade. JW
There. Moderately clever.
This time there was hardly any wait before Sherlock's returning text.
Already solved that one. Mrs. Hudson was the culprit. She bribed one John H. Watson with the promise of scones. Very shady. SH
John couldn't help chuckling to himself as he composed his reply.
Are you planning on revealing these findings to the police? Or are you going to hold the evidence over the doctor's head in order to extort a share of said scones? JW
Do you take me for a monster? I will do neither. But if the good doctor feels my deductions merit a reward, I would not object to a scone or two. SH
Was Sherlock... flirting?
Well then, if I see this alleged Dr. Watson, I'll let him know of your desire for scones. JW
No. No, of course Sherlock wasn't flirting. He was playing a game, trying to draw John out and expose him.
But if John just forgot about the experiment, about the fact that his flatmate was a man with the emotional intelligence of a four-year-old, it almost felt like...
God.
What was John even thinking?
Sherlock didn't want him; he was just toying with him, trying to provoke a specific reaction. John stuffed the phone back in his pocket, trying to push his flatmate out of his mind.
John tried to pretend he wasn't disappointed when his phone never buzzed with a reply.
Chapter 3: Experimental Error
Rating: T
Genres: Romance, Crack
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Wordcount: 1,819 (this chapter); 13,400 total
Beta: percygranger
Apparently, Sherlock is experimenting on John without his consent. John is going to kill him. Right after he makes a cup of tea.
Chapter 1: John, Guinea Pig
Chapter 2: Uncooperative Test Subjects
Unlike Sherlock, John didn't tend to look for complicated solutions to problems. He was a firm believer in Occam's razor. When in doubt, the simplest solution was probably the correct one.
And although there were many and varied possible explanations for Sherlock's dilated pupils, the most likely explanation was a simple one.
The three possibilities John knew of that caused pupil dilation were as follows:
Sherlock had recently suffered head trauma;
Sherlock was under the effects of some sort of drug; or
Sherlock was experiencing the effects of naturally released oxytocin.
In layman's terms:
Sherlock was concussed;
Sherlock was high; or
Sherlock was attracted to someone in the immediate vicinity.
It was easy enough to eliminate the options. John was fairly certain that Sherlock had suffered no recent head blows, nor had he ingested anything more stimulating than caffeine.
So Sherlock was attracted to him, then. John tried not to feel too insufferably smug about the fact.
***
On a sunny afternoon four days later, John was sitting in his chair, idly picturing Sherlock in a towel and wondering how he'd react if John were to pop out of the shower without one, when a visitor knocked on the door to 221B.
Sherlock, previously laying stretched out on the sofa with his arms folded across his stomach, leapt up and stormed over to the door, dressing gown flapping wildly about his legs.
Instead of opening the door, however, he fastened the deadbolt.
"Mycroft?" John hazarded.
A voice came through the closed door, muffled but still sharp with public school articulation. "Don't be childish, Sherlock."
"Go away!" Sherlock shouted through the door.
"Oh, for God's sake," John said, "just let him in and be done with it."
Sherlock ignored John and stalked back to the sofa, where he flopped bonelessly, emitting a dramatic sigh.
John really shouldn't find that attractive.
Why did he find that attractive?
Mycroft cleared his throat as the deadbolt unlocked and the door swung open. He slipped the door key into his left breast pocket with something resembling a smirk.
"John, delightful as always to see you. How have you been?"
John managed a strained smile in reply. "Fine, thanks. Tea?"
Mycroft smiled, wolf-like, as he settled into Sherlock's chair. "Tea would be lovely, thank you."
John kept half an ear open for the brothers' bickering as he puttered about the kitchen. When the flat was quiet once more, he poked his head back into the sitting room. "Mycroft gone already?"
Sherlock, now perched on the sofa with his legs drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his knees, scowled back at John. "If only. He's relieving himself. I've no idea why he couldn't wait until he got back to his office."
John rolled his eyes as he retreated. "Too much information, Sherlock, thanks."
When he came back into the sitting room, three mugs of steaming Earl Grey in hand, Mycroft was back in Sherlock's chair, and Sherlock looked even more hunched into himself than before, chin resting on his knees and shoulders drawn up almost to his ears.
"This is beneath my attention, Mycroft! Why did you even bother coming here?"
Mycroft simply took the cup John offered him and took a smooth sip, not even glancing in John's direction. "You have no cases on at the moment, Sherlock. I thought that perhaps a matter of national security would be enough to intrigue you."
"Apparently not," Sherlock snapped.
Mycroft set the mug down on the table and rose to his feet all in one smooth movement. "Very well. I doubt that wasting more of your valuable time will be of benefit to either of us."
"Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Mycroft."
Mycroft simply nodded once towards John and swept out of the room, umbrella dangling from one hand elegantly.
"Good riddance," Sherlock muttered as the door clicked softly shut behind his brother.
"Sherlock," John said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice, "you can't keep doing that to your brother. For one thing, we could use the money."
Sherlock merely flopped sideways onto the sofa and did his best impression of a Salvador Dali painting, practically melting over the side, his back bent at an awkward angle. "It was obvious, John. Besides, I don't trust him. For all I know, it was just a ploy to plant more bugs in the flat."
It took a moment for Sherlock's words to register. "Wait, what? Bugs? You're not serious, are you?"
Unfortunately, Sherlock looked rather too thoughtful to be joking. "Hmmm. He went to the toilet. I'll have to check there as well."
"Wait, you think he bugged the loo?" John could feel his face heating up as he pictured Mycroft in front of a bank of monitors showing John wanking off in the shower from various angles. "What the hell is wrong with your family?"
Sherlock shrugged and waved his hand in the air as though he were fanning away the smell Mycroft had left behind. "Don't worry, I'll be thorough. You won't have to worry about preserving your modesty from my brother's prying eyes." He smirked at John. "He'll be sorely disappointed, I'm sure."
John would never be able to wank in the shower again. He turned and went back to the kitchen. More than one cup of tea would be required to wipe that particular image from his brain.
***
John was going slowly mad.
It was all the fault of this bloody experiment.
It had been three weeks since he'd gone to the lab with Sherlock. At first, Sherlock would spend massive amounts of time cooped up in his room, doing God-knows-what, until John was able to lure him out. The flat had certainly been more peaceful. Fewer gruesome experiments. No corpses. Sherlock wasn't trying to steal his gun and shoot holes in the wall, or flying about the flat looking for his smokes. There were even fewer body parts in the fridge.
In fact, Sherlock had been quite pleasant the past few weeks, with the exception of placing those toes in John's jar of raspberry jam.
After Mycroft came 'round the flat and Sherlock made that quip about the cameras, John started paying extra attention.
Apparently Mycroft wasn't the only one to plant cameras in the flat.
For the last three weeks, whenever they came up the seventeen steps to the flat, Sherlock would always, always, let John go first up the stairs. When they were in the kitchen, Sherlock would stand in one of three positions, and he'd subtly change his body language when John was in front of the cooker, making tea. In the sitting room, he always tried to get John to sit if he was pacing the room.
And when Sherlock was around John, well, he was... quite attentive.
It was flattering, really. Being the centre of Sherlock's attention, for once. Even on cases, Sherlock would always be looking at John. They'd been spending more time together.
From this, John had concluded that there were five cameras hidden about the flat, that Sherlock knew of their locations, and more importantly, he wanted John to be filmed by them.
Of course, the best revenge would be to ruin Sherlock's data collection. So when he made tea, he angled his head down. When he sat in his chair, he always focused on his laptop or a newspaper.
He could tell he was succeeding in his goal when Sherlock would start pouting from his spot on the sofa.
The longer John could drag this out, the better off he'd be.
As soon as Sherlock determined the source of his infatuation ("call it what it is," a traitorous voice whispered inside John's head) he would be off to bigger, better things. And, to be honest, John rather liked this version of Sherlock.
He was quiet, focused, and, well...
He was a bit obsessed with John.
John didn't mind.
In fact, he rather liked it.
And he found himself thinking of Sherlock even more often.
Like right now, for instance, at work, when he should be filling out paperwork in between appointments.
Why was it that he couldn't get the man out of his head? Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Every time his mobile buzzed, his heart leapt with the idiotic hope that it would be a text from Sherlock.
John's phone buzzed in his pocket.
God, it was probably Harry. She'd called and texted yesterday to complain about Clara and her life and why was it John could have better luck with his relationships, when he wasn't even gay. And John hadn't even bothered to whip out the tired party line, just told her not to call at work and hung up on her.
But it might be Sherlock.
He pulled out his mobile, trying not to get his hopes up, and when he turned on the screen, he couldn't help the grin that spread across his face.
Bored. SH
Right. Best gather his thoughts before he said something ridiculous.
And what do you expect me to do about it, exactly? JW
John just clutched his phone like a giddy school girl, awaiting Sherlock's response. God, he was ridiculous. What was wrong with him?
Less than five seconds after setting down his phone on the table, it buzzed with a reply.
Give me a case. SH
John snorted.
Sorry, I think you have the wrong number. Unless you're looking to solve the case of the missing semi-skimmed, try Lestrade. JW
There. Moderately clever.
This time there was hardly any wait before Sherlock's returning text.
Already solved that one. Mrs. Hudson was the culprit. She bribed one John H. Watson with the promise of scones. Very shady. SH
John couldn't help chuckling to himself as he composed his reply.
Are you planning on revealing these findings to the police? Or are you going to hold the evidence over the doctor's head in order to extort a share of said scones? JW
Do you take me for a monster? I will do neither. But if the good doctor feels my deductions merit a reward, I would not object to a scone or two. SH
Was Sherlock... flirting?
Well then, if I see this alleged Dr. Watson, I'll let him know of your desire for scones. JW
No. No, of course Sherlock wasn't flirting. He was playing a game, trying to draw John out and expose him.
But if John just forgot about the experiment, about the fact that his flatmate was a man with the emotional intelligence of a four-year-old, it almost felt like...
God.
What was John even thinking?
Sherlock didn't want him; he was just toying with him, trying to provoke a specific reaction. John stuffed the phone back in his pocket, trying to push his flatmate out of his mind.
John tried to pretend he wasn't disappointed when his phone never buzzed with a reply.
Chapter 3: Experimental Error