Disclaimer: I don't own a single thing. A.N. I know, I know, I chickened out of the smut…but I don't feel up to it yet, sorry! Forgive me?

How Watson learned the trick

From an outsider's point of view, they're weirdly assorted, for sure. Sherlock is the first one to attract everyone's eyes, of course. She might love shapeless, flowing clothes with chemistry puns print – or better yet, actual pyjamas – when she's at home and no one is expected. But in public? In public – which at least half the time means on a case – her style would be deemed flawless by the strictest fashion critic.

Or, to use Jane's fond teasing, she insists on dressing like a fucking model who's just run away from the catwalk. The fact that she 'has' to look perfect, lest people suspect she's fallen back into her old vices (high off her rocker, proper clothes were obviously the last of her concerns) and stage yet another drugs bust or – worse – deny her cases until she brings updated blood work. Much easier to maintain a professional look.

Only, with designer clothes which complement her figure, and her natural gorgeousness (seriously, with eyes the colours of sea waves, tantalizing curls, and what feels like miles and miles of legs) the sleuth has had to deal with unwanted advances way too often. If she's lucky, she gets branded as Ice Bitch once she spurns the random suitors. If not…well, there's a reason she's trained in a number of martial arts and fighting styles, and it happened long before she started her consulting detective business.

Always at her side, or, if the situation calls for it (there's a reason it's called backup) one step behind, Jane can seem forgettable in comparison. Not too tall, not as striking features…she's no model, for sure. This doesn't mean that her smile (well, the one which is not threatening at least) can't warm a room five degrees on its own. Or that, despite her atrocious dress sense (if you asked her flatmate), she couldn't turn heads if she wanted to.

But much more important, Jane's natural attitude makes her friends everywhere. Soothes distraught clients and her moody detective alike with ease. Let it not fool you, though, because she's army and officer and doctor and she can either reduce you to a whimpering, apologising mess or take you down with exactly the same ease. Only a moron will underestimate her…which means that too many still do, because the world is full of idiots. For which Sherlock is, for once, secretly grateful, because if more people realised what a complex gem her blogger is, obviously Jane wouldn't bother with her own aggravating self.

Instead, there they are, sharing a flat, half a career – Jane might have an official job, but she's always at the consulting detective's side when it counts anyway – and a rather warped sense of humour. Then again, why can't you giggle at a crime scene? I mean, it's not like the dead body is going to be offended.

Now, if only Sherlock could convey that she would love for their friendship to, well, deepen…she desperately wants to erase that little, maddening space when declaring that, odd as it may seem, they're indeed girl friends. But it is harder than starting a relationship should logically be allowed to be. What with Jane busy – apparently – shagging the whole adult male population of London. Seriously, is she trying to set a record for the Guinness? Or the selective obliviousness of her flatmate. For someone so apt to notice signals of sexual interest, flat-out, wilfully misinterpreting the sleuth asking her out – regarding feelings, the detective will always opt first for bluntness – would have frustrated even a saint.

Because there are some relevant facts. Too many times to count Jane has – very correctly – pointed out that no, they're not together. And no, people having threesome fantasies can forget putting their dirty paws on the consulting detective by asking out her blogger first. The only likely result of that is a visit at A&E if they become too insistent. And yes, that first time at Angelo's her very own doctor denied any intention of flirting with her. But Sherlock's not born yesterday. She's already been flirted with (though she refused most of them), and she knows what it looks like. And she'll give up her career if the signals Jane was sending weren't at the very least very mixed.

So no, Jane is not as strict in her gender of preference as she would like to portray herself. Of course, she could just not be into Sherlock – certainly most people would declare that the sleuth should come with a "If you know her, you avoid her" label. But the frequency of her lip-licking (and consequent need to reapply chapstick) are proof that the physical attraction is still there, and as far as sentiment goes…well, Jane seems to be the one who appreciates her the most. So why aren't they in the same bed yet? What the heck does that girl need to get a hint that yes, given everything that happened since that first evening at Angelo's, her flatmate is more than ready to reconsider their bedroom arrangement?

Dropping what Sherlock feels are rather obvious hints didn't work. Asking her out outright didn't work. Does Jane want her to hang a big neon garland in the midst of the sitting room with, "I adore you, please be my significant other?" (Because if she wrote girlfriend, with her luck, her adorable – but maddening – love would just assume a typo).

The consulting detective is seriously considering that project, when a distressed client comes, distracting her from her sentimental woes, and offering a case – out of London. For all that Sherlock has solved it without leaving her armchair, she decides that examining the scene is paramount. More so, that they need absolutely to see the area in the dawn's light (that's when the 'robbery' – though it's obviously staged – they're asked to investigate happened). Which means that they'll have to spend the night there. If she plays her cards well, she might still have a chance.

A minute on google, a quick call, and she's dragging Jane out of the house. Her friend tries to mention that she has a date tonight, and is Sherlock sure that she can't go alone, when it's only a crime scene examination? But that makes the sleuth only more stubbornly resolved to drag her away from the clutches of whatever dumb man she managed to land herself now. (He might be a neurosurgeon, for all the brunette knows – he's still, automatically, an idiot and unworthy of Jane).

The detective has to threaten her flatmate to publicly divulge her middle name to get her to comply, and lowkey blackmail might not be the right start to her project, but whatever works. Mycroft would surely approve of the means, if not the goal. It's not Sherlock's fault that Jane's parents were insane enough to call her Jane Jane…or, well, they would have if they weren't of Scottish descent.

What they actually called her is Jane Sheena. Apparently, Jane's mum justified it by mentioning a singer she loves (who wrote one of the James Bond themes, which might explain her blogger's obsession with it). After insistent questions, Jane explained she loathes her middle name so much because of a comic heroine, a sort of female Tarzan, whose existence their parents managed to entirely miss somehow. Still, an association that the doctor finds terribly embarrassing. She has more class than that. (Though she can kick just as much if not more ass).

With a last huff, Jane caved in. A text, and they were on a train, headed for the tiny Cornish village where their client resided. Sherlock had booked a room in the only…well, Jane wasn't even sure it was worthy of the hotel name. Inn, maybe? She stopped and stared for a minute seeing the room (and not because of the awful shade of the comforter), but by the time she'd blinked a few times and the room was still the same, the employee who'd accompanied them to their bedroom was already gone.

"Yes, it's a double bedroom, not a twin. I don't kick, you don't snore, there shouldn't be any problem. Besides, it's just a night. I'm sure I'll have the whole thing solved as soon as I see the crime scene," Sherlock pointed out with a shrug. If she sneaked a bit of cuddles in, she couldn't be blamed, certainly…and maybe Jane will find that she didn't hate waking up next to her…

"I suppose for one night there's no reason to make a fuss. But I get first turn in the bathroom," Jane replied, scurrying away without awaiting an answer. The universe either hated her or loved her, and she needed time and solitude to decide which of the two.

Sherlock tried to regulate her heartbeat and breathing. She was about to sleep (literally so) with Jane. As much as she loved it, having a heart attack before the night even started wasn't a good policy. True, Jane as a doctor was amazing, but they so didn't need to send her on observation to the nearest hospital because of severe arrhythmia. That would dampen the evening.

When Jane appeared, in a flowery nightgown, though, all the sleuth's efforts went out the window. Her breath actually stopped until she remembered it was a necessity, a few seconds later. She bounced off her chair, holding tight what she planned to wear, and hurried to the newly vacated bathroom. She tried not to giggle, imagining what would Jane's reaction be to her ensemble.

It might not be, technically, the most traditionally seductive things she owned. But it was her, and she hoped that it might at least spark a conversation, and that her blogger would appreciate it. It was a courtesy she gave Jane, that she would dress at all. She preferred to sleep in the nude, and her flatmate knew – the sheets she used instead of a robe sometimes had a tendency to slip. But she had a feeling that Jane would object to it.

So, the next best things were a sleeveless black tank top, with the bones of the skeleton printed on, and a pair of black lace panties where the lace created multiple skulls. If she couldn't seduce her beloved with that, it would hopefully made her laugh, and that was just as good.

Of all the reactions she expected, it was not for Jane to take a look at her, and order, "Lose that. Now."

"What?" the detective asked, the sentence somehow not computing in her head.

"I don't mind the skull on the mantelpiece; I tolerate random body parts in our fridge. But you looking like an anatomical model in my bed? That's where I put my foot down. I don't want to be spooked when I'm half asleep," Jane declared, but there was a smile on her lips, and a twinkle in her eyes, that belied her harsh words.

Sherlock called her out on it – she didn't have a backup plan for nightwear after all. "All this seems very sensible, but your body language seems to disagree with it…so, what do you really want?"

"I thought I was very clear about what I wanted…but you're right as always, I might have a double intent. Look, I suspect I might have deduced something, and was acting in accordance with that. If I'm wrong, don't be too angry, please. Just…delete this evening," the doctor replied, now looking at the left wall rather than her friend.

"I would never be angry, Jane. And you've made me really curious now!" the consulting detective promised, smiling herself.

"I know, I know, you've always said you don't need a partner, emotions are stupid, married to your work and all that. But…you've been the one making the reservation. The hotel lady didn't apologise for any error. And you didn't mention anything like, 'all twin rooms were already booked'. I would have, if it was the case. So, I deduce that you specifically wanted a double bed. It doesn't seem too big of a leap, to deduce that you're now open to cheating on the Work. I always told myself that I was reading too much into it before, seeing what I wanted to see every time it seemed like you could be open to it. but this…this is something you did, very deliberately. So, if you did plan that, even with just lingerie it seems to me like you're overdressed. Am I wrong?" Jane explained, all in a rush.

Sherlock allowed a slow smile to spread on her face, before acknowledging, "Perfect deduction. But in that case, aren't you overdressed too?"

"That is soon remedied," her beloved purred.

When Sherlock specifically requested to be left with enough hickeys to be sure, the following day, that she hadn't (yet again) dreamt what followed, Jane didn't object. They both had many, many dreams to make true – that night and all the ones that would follow (and some morning and afternoon, too).