"You're the Secret I Keep"

It had rained for the entire week. The clouds that descended on London were oppressive. Sherlock Holmes was inconsolable. He didn't have a case. Lestrade had called him a few times over the past months, but the cases took no more than a few hours to solve. He needed a real challenge. There was nothing to do at 221B Baker St. that distracted him more than a few moments. Watson was working at the clinic on a steady schedule, mooning over Sarah and reading various blogs.

"John!" Sherlock collapsed on the sofa. He hadn't dressed for days. His robe and pajamas were comfortable and familiar. "JOHN!"

Exactly five minutes passed before footsteps descended the staircase.

"John!"

"I'm right here, Sherlock." There was a lack of exasperation in Watson's voice was rather annoying.

Sherlock sighed. "There's no coffee."

"I set the coffee on a timer. There will be coffee exactly when you always drink it in the afternoon, Sherlock." Watson sat in his favorite chair and regarded Sherlock with what he had come to think of as a mix of thinly-veiled amusement and sympathy. There were things that he had come to accept about his life with Sherlock. The genius of a highly functioning sociopath could not be denied. He just wished that a new serial killer would come to light—not that he wished anyone dead, but Sherlock needed the work. Watson needed the danger.

"Fine."

"What if we went out for dinner? You haven't dressed for days. I'll buy. I got paid yesterday."

"I don't want to go out."

"I'm not cooking again. And no need to bother calling Mrs. Hudson because she went out."

"Yes, yes, I know. It's Thursday night. She always goes out with that old barrister. He thinks she has pocket money to spare." Sherlock tapped his fingers against his knee. His eyes narrowed in concentration before he smiled.

"Why are you smiling like that—I don't like that you're smiling that way. This isn't the proper time for it. I have to go to work in the morning."

"Front door in half an hour. Bring your gun and my coffee." Sherlock sprang from the sofa, whirling once in excitement. "It's perfect. -just the thing to pass the time until our next case. You need something to blog about. Your last post about working with the police department was abysmal. I want people to actually have something of merit to fill their empty little brains."

Watson didn't hesitate in taking his gun from beneath his pillow or grabbing his green army jacket. The gun went under his beige cable-knit fisherman's sweater at his back. Phone and keys were tucked into his jacket pocket. The coffee was brewed by the time he descended to the main floor of their flat to make the coffee. He waited by the front door, debating whether he should text Sarah to see what her plans were for the evening.

"John!"

"I'm at the door, Sherlock."

"I can't find my scarf!"

"Wear another one." Watson replied with a smile.

"It's my favorite scarf. I don't want another."

"Maybe it was mixed up in the laundry. I'll pick up the dry cleaning tomorrow."

Sherlock descended the stairs tying a scarf, much like the aforementioned favorite, though a rich burgundy. "Perhaps we shouldn't go out."

"I'm starving…we need to go out."

Sherlock reached for his cup of coffee. "I'll need another if I'm going to wear this awful thing."

"Fine. I'll go make you another while you drink this one." Watson forced himself not to smile as he hurried back upstairs. He left Sherlock to nurse the coffee. As he passed his chair, he reached down to check the positioning of the flag pillow. The edge of navy scarf was just visible. He picked up the pillow, folded the scarf into a neater square, and paused only once to inhale the rather unique scent of Sherlock Holmes.

"John!"

He tucked the scarf further behind the cushions of his chair and adjusted the pillow. He glanced at his watch before taking a seat in the chair.

"JOHN!"

It was raining steadily when they finally made their way onto the sidewalk in front of 221B Baker St. with umbrellas in hand.

"You know…you don't have to be so precise in your stubborn refusal to come when I'm calling you." Sherlock observed as he hailed the taxi. "You have a stubborn streak, John. Probably comes from your inability to control certain aspects of your life."

Watson shrugged. "I always come anyway, Sherlock. I can tell when it's important by the tone of your voice."

"Now you're analyzing details?" Sherlock leaned down to peer under Watson's umbrella. He stared at Watson for a long moment before sighing and walking towards the taxi that pulled to the curb. "You should vary the length of your waiting…five minutes is boring. It's starting to kill the suspense."

There was an awkward silence. Watson's blinked. "Okay."

"Come on. This isn't going to work if we're standing here."

"Exactly what are we doing?" Watson followed Sherlock into the cab.

"I'll explain over dinner, but we need to stop by a local corner shop and locate a few items. "

"Will we be eating dinner tonight…or do you mean you'll explain tomorrow." Watson inquired after Sherlock gave the cabbie instructions. "Just so I'll know what else to grab."

Sherlock smiled and put his arm around Watson's shoulders. He leaned in as close as possible, his mouth a breath from Watson's ear. His long tapered fingers went up against the sides of Watson's face to suppress the sound of his rather cryptic whisper. Watson sat up straighter, his fingers convulsed around the hilt of his umbrella, before his mouth opened in surprise. Sherlock's voice was pitched low and deep as he spoke five words that frightened and intrigued Watson at the same time.

"We're here…unless you two lovebirds want to keep the meter running." The cabby was staring at them in the rearview mirror. "I won't tell your secrets."

"We're not…lovebirds." Watson couldn't tell if he was flushing, but he was aware that Sherlock still had his arm around his shoulder.

"Keep the meter running. I'll be back in five minutes." Sherlock patted Watson's shoulder absently before dashing out into the rain without an umbrella.

"Not lovebirds? Not yet." The cabby laughed. "No need to look so surprised. My brother's got a nice boyfriend. Keeps a clean house. Cooks dinner every night. They get along better than me and the missus. You'll make him happy as a lark. You look the type."

"We're just flat-mates." Watson muttered as his phone rang. He didn't recognize the number. "Hello."

"Dr. Watson. You sound almost annoyed. Would you mind telling me exactly why Sherlock is in the corner shop purchasing cigarettes and a box of chocolates?"

"Mycroft?"

"You're trying my patience, John."

"I don't know."

"You know everything he does. It's amazing the way he's decided to confide in you. I know you've saved his life…kept him out of scrapes. It's not that I'm not grateful. You're filling the gap in certain respects, but he's not working and Sherlock always gets into trouble when he's not working."

Watson sighed. "You don't need to worry."

"Make sure of it and I'll be sure to keep your little secret."

"What are you talking about?"

"He's going to notice if you don't put his stuff back. You don't want him investigating you out of boredom, John." Mycroft chuckled.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mycroft."

"One navy blue scarf, one black man's dress shirt, a nicotine patch—unused thankfully—you have some taste. And the subtext of the blog. If my dear Sherlock wasn't so damn full of himself, he wouldn't be so blind to the fact that your flattery hides a much different sort of affection."

"This conversation is over." Watson hung up the phone. He stared out of the window, his breathing unsteady.

Sherlock burst into the cab with a bag and instructions for their next stop. He settled back for the ride. "Mycroft ring yet?"

"Just now. He's worried."

"Perfect." Sherlock smiled. "The game is on, my dear Watson. The game is on."

John nodded just as a text message flashed. He opened his phone casually out of Sherlock's line of sight. A different anonymous number had sent:

Just remember, I'm keeping our little secret. MH