Chapter Text
Sherlock was bored. There was no case, Watson had banned him from cocaine, and the flat was dead silent. Miss Hudson was back in Spain, on a weekend trip to see her family, and Watson had taken the little goblin he called Archie out to the park. And so he sat, alone on the couch, nothing to excite or entice him into moving anywhere else.
He let out a long sigh though his nose, then dug out his mobile from his hoodie pocket, clicking it on. He had about a hundred notifications from Discord – some silly app Watson had made him get to “talk to the fans.”
“Talk to them about what, exactly? Sherlock had asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow at his flatmate as he tap, tap tapped away on his laptop.
“All kinds of things,” Watson had replied, turning his screen around to show Sherlock the application in question. “See, there’s a channel here where they can ask questions, and–”
“What’s that one?” Sherlock had asked, pointing to one labeled #fan-content.
“Ah,” Watson had said, turning his laptop back around to face himself. “Just a space where people can leave fan mail, art, things of that nature…”
“Art?” Sherlock echoed, confused.
“Yeah, art. Some people draw us.”
“Why would they want to draw us?”
“I dunno,” John replied with a shrug.
Sherlock had opened his mouth to reply, but the doorbell had interrupted whatever he was about to say, and before they knew it they were on a case.
Now, as he sat on the couch, he perused the Discord, looking through messages of people talking about their past cases, before his eyes landed on the words #fan-content. He tapped, ever curious, and was surprised when immediately an image popped up of cartoon versions of him, Watson, and Miss Hudson, dressed in ugly Christmas sweaters.
“As if I would wear anything like that,” Sherlock huffed to himself, scrolling up past the artwork.
There was more. Much, much more. All kinds of depictions of him and his colleagues, even some of his brother, of Lestrade. This many people listened to Watson’s podcast?
Then a certain message caught his attention. It wasn’t a drawing, or an image at all, but rather a link, the words The Adventure of the Mayfair Developers written out in blue. Sherlock wasn’t familiar with that case. He clicked on the link, and was taken to a website called Archive of Our Own.
How fascinating. Someone had taken the time to write out him and Watson solving a fictitious case. He scrolled, eyes skimming the words, wondering what kind of tale the podcast listeners could spin. As he read, he found himself surprisingly amused. The way they wrote him, Watson, and Miss Hudson— er, Mariana— interacting was rather entertaining. There are other characters mentioned, too, names Sherlock isn’t familiar with. The writer must have taken some creative liberties when crafting this case for the fictional versions of him and his colleagues to solve. How amusing.
He was about halfway through when his eyes stopped dead, his breath catching in his throat. He sat up straighter on the couch. Had he read that correctly?
His eyes flew back over the words, his mouth going dry as he realized exactly what was happening.
Him and Watson were kissing. In the story. They were kissing.
Much like the phenomenon of not being able to look away from a car wreck, Sherlock read on, growing more short of breath as the Watson in the story listens back to the recording of them kissing, the two of them avoiding each other, and finally…
He read the rest of the story, not missing a word, and then he’s just staring at his screen, mouth parted slightly as he tried to make sense of what he’d just read.
Why in the world would someone who listens to Watson’s podcast write… that?
He scrolled back up to the top of the page, reading the information about the story. His finger tentatively pressed on the words Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, which were underlined to indicate a hyperlink.
His eyebrows shot up as many more stories just like it loaded in. Well over a hundred, the page boasted. All of the stories relating to him and Watson… getting it on. To varying degrees of how explicit the encounters were, it would seem.
Sherlock clicked the screen off, just staring at his reflection for a moment, noting his slightly flushed cheeks and elevated heart rate. He wondered what had given the listeners the indication that he and Watson were… involved. Like that.
He was pondering this when the telltale sign of a key jingling in the door reached his ears, followed by a snorting, snuffling sound that could only belong to Archie. Sherlock sprang up, then sat back down, unsure all of a sudden how to act natural.
His flatmate didn’t seem to pick up on the fact he was rather on edge, speaking loudly to Archie in the entryway before the pair made their way up the stairs. He barely spared a glance at Sherlock before he made his way to the fridge, digging out an ice lolly before filling Archie’s water bowl.
“Enjoy your walk?” Sherlock asked, his voice coming out a tad louder than he had intended.
“Oh yeah,” Watson replied, making his way back into the living room. “Weather’s spectacular. Crazy for London, really, so many folks out and about today, and—“
Sherlock was listening, he really was, but Watson paused to lick the ice lolly and his brain seemed to short circuit for a moment.
He wondered how one of the people who wrote those… fanfictions about them would portray this scene. If Watson would notice him noticing, if he’d toss aside the ice lolly in favor of licking something else.
Christ.
“You alright, mate?” Watson suddenly asked. Sherlock blinked a few times, realizing his friend was looking at him with concern.
“Oh. Yes. Sorry, Watson, you were saying, about the squirrels who were shagging?”
Watson huffed out a laugh, but his brow remained furrowed. “Seriously. You’re pale. Paler than usual, I mean, which is saying something considering you’re-you’re quite pale to begin with,” he blabbered.
Sherlock cleared his throat and stood stiffly. Watson licked the ice lolly again. Damn him.
“I think I’ll have a nap,” he said, not even giving Watson time to reply before he hurriedly made his way to his room and shut the door behind him.
Not his best lie, sure, but he could feel the anxiety beginning to constrict his throat, and he needed time to himself to unpack exactly how he was feeling about this, and how he wanted to proceed.
He had no idea so many fans of Watson’s podcast wanted them to kiss. How utterly strange.
Sherlock slipped his ear defenders on, blocking out the world as he tried to sort his thoughts back into order. He sat on the edge of his bed for quite a while, no closer to untangling the jumble of thoughts in his mind. Eventually he groaned and leaned back until he hit the bed, staring at the ceiling.
His phone slid from his hoodie pocket with the motion, and he grabbed it on instinct, raising it up to his eye level with a sigh. As soon as he turned it back on, he was met with the web page that contained all of those… stories. Stories of him. And Watson.
Against his better judgement, he scrolled, eyes skimming over the titles and descriptions of them. He tapped on another and began reading.
It was fascinating, really. Sherlock focused on breathing deeply and tapping a soothing rhythm into the side of his phone, waiting for his heart rate to slow so he could properly read and analyze the words on the screen. After getting over the initial shock of the concept, followed by Watson walking through the door, he found that once he had calmed down a bit, his rational thought returned.
Watson was his best friend, flatmate, and coworker. They had a rapport, as Mariana pointed out. He supposed it made sense that some of the fans of the podcast might assume the two of them to be a couple, though he couldn’t recall giving any indication to the listeners that there was anything between them like that, or that Sherlock was even queer in the first place. Perhaps they could just tell? Was it his voice?
He read story after story, devouring the words as if the secret to the universe was nestled between the paragraphs. He found himself amused at points, delighted at how well the audience was able to capture John’s voice, his mannerisms. It seemed they had a bit harder of a time with him, though, which was to be expected considering he was… how did Watson put it? The most bizarre person he had ever and will ever know?
There was one story though, that as he read it, set off alarm bells in his head. He clicked his tongue, scrolling back up and rereading, trying to decipher exactly where his brain had caught onto something…
Sherlock scoffed, crossing one leg over the opposite knee. The plasters on his fingers matched that of his pyjama bottoms — Thomas the Tank Engine. Funnily enough, despite the childish nature of the subject matter, he looked good in blue, and he had clearly had the pyjamas for quite some time, judging on how short they were, and how faded Thomas’ many faces.
The real Sherlock sat up in bed. He knew Watson had mentioned the Thomas the Tank Engine plasters while recording for the podcast before — they were on sale, and they did their job, so why did it matter, anyway?— but he wracked his brain, trying to think of a time when the pyjamas were mentioned, or if he had ever worn them around Watson while he was recording.
Sherlock didn’t listen to Watson’s podcast. He had no reason to. Any important information that they had gleaned while on a case was tucked safely inside his mind palace, waiting patiently to be accessed the next time he might need to refer back to anything. But now… he’d need to go back and listen. For research.
It didn’t take him long. Putting the episodes on 1.5x speed helped, and he only had to listen to segments from when they were at home at the flat; the only place he’d even be wearing the pyjamas around Watson in the first place.
Soon, he had reached the end of all of Watson’s published episodes, and so far had come up with nothing aside from the confirmation that Watson had mentioned the design on the plasters. But that was all.
Sherlock clicked pause on his phone and slipped off his headphones, running one hand through his unruly hair. Perhaps whoever had written that particular story was crafting a fictitious pair of pyjama bottoms for Sherlock for comedic effect, and just so happened to be correct. But how would they know that they were well worn? That they were too short for him? Even a master of deduction such as himself would have trouble correctly identifying the sleeping garments of someone based only on hearing their voice and knowing the design on plasters they kept in their kitchen cupboard.
Which left only one conclusion.
Yes. Quite simple, really.
Sherlock jumped slightly as a clanging noise suddenly disturbed the silence. The clock on his phone let him know that it was nearly eight in the morning, and he had stayed up all night listening to the podcast.
Watson must be awake and making breakfast. Perfect.
The sound of eggs popping met Sherlock’s ears as soon as he opened the door and stepped out, the smell hitting his nose not soon after. He rounded the corner and there was Watson, in shorts and a faded graphic tee, humming to himself as he stirred the eggs.
The blonde doctor looked up from his breakfast, his face morphing into surprise. “You’re up early,” he remarked.
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, not even bothering to set the record straight that no, he was not up early, he was in fact up very late, and had never gone to bed at all. He was much more preoccupied with asking the burning questions that were dancing around in his head, next to some of the phrases from the stories he had read.
Watson kept his gaze on Sherlock, his eggs momentarily forgotten, sizzling in protest. “Everything alright? Are you coming down with something?” He looked even more concerned than usual, and Sherlock could guess that him running out mid conversation the day before wasn’t helping.
“I stumbled upon something interesting last night,” Sherlock said in lieu of answering the doctor’s question. He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table, folding his hands in his lap to hide his fidgeting.
“Oh?” Watson said, relaxing a bit and turning back towards the stove. “Something useful for a case?”
“Not really,” Sherlock replied. “Have you heard of a website called Archive of Our Own?”
Watson’s shoulders stiffened slightly, but he recovered quickly and gave his eggs a decisive stir.
“Occasionally it seems people abbreviate it to ‘Ao3,’” Sherlock continued, putting air quotes around the acronym even though Watson wasn’t looking at him.
Silence for a beat. Then, “I see our listeners share some links to it in the Discord server sometimes. Never thought it would be something that would interest you.” Watson said, his voice measured in a way that was intentional and guarded. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his back.
“Did you know our listeners write stories about us?” he prodded.
Watson spun the spatula in his hand, a nervous tick. “Do they now?”
“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed, keeping his eyes glued to his flatmate and analyzing his every micromovement. “In fact they seem to enjoy writing about you and I, specifically, Watson. In a romantic context.”
The kettle whistled, and Watson practically pounced on it, still looking away from Sherlock. “Oh really? That’s-that’s funny now, isn’t it?”
“Amusing, yes, that they would think such a thing. I guess our friendship could be read as such to some people.” He drummed his fingers on the table, leaning in. “I noticed something in one of them, though, that I found particularly of interest.”
Watson said nothing for a moment as he plated his eggs and poured both himself and Sherlock a cup of tea, his movements fluid. On autopilot.
“Why’s that?” Watson prompted, not looking at him.
“The title is Heart’s Melody,” Sherlock said, then paused to take a sip of the beverage that had been set in front of him.
Watson’s face remained neutral as he ate. Too neutral. Like he was keeping it that way through considerable effort.
“Ever read it?” Sherlock asked, folding his hands and sitting his chin atop them.
“Can’t say I have,” Watson replied, the lilt of his voice giving him away.
“There was a detail in it that I couldn’t help but notice,” The detective started after a sharp intake of breath, rubbing his finger against one of his plasters. “Something that might have been a lucky guess, by someone who listens at length to your podcast and has gleaned a rather intimate understanding of you and I and our little idiosyncrasies, but the much more logical conclusion was that someone who knows me wrote it.”
Watson sipped his tea, his eyes darting around the room before finally landing on Sherlock’s.
“My pyjamas,” Sherlock supplied when it became clear that Watson was not going to respond. “The only people who have seen the particular pair mentioned in the story are my flatmates. You and Mariana.”
Watson snorted. “Are you suggesting Mariana writes fanfiction about us?”
Sherlock laughed, and after a moment Watson joined in, sounding nervous. “No, no, surely not,” he chuckled. Then he learned forward, his smile dropping as his gaze bored into Watson’s eyes. “Which means it had to have been you.”