There are footsteps on the stairs. John doesn't pay much attention to them, wrapped up as he is in updating his blog, until they reach the door to the flat, which opens. John glances up, then back down, and back up, his eyes wide.

Sherlock is standing in the middle of the room wearing a massive scowl. His clothes are askew, his hair wildly mussed. And he is absolutely covered...in lipstick. The marks are on his neck and face. John gapes.

There is a moment of silence.

"Don't. You. Dare," Sherlock says dangerously.

"No, no." John holds up his hands. "Erm..." He bursts out laughing.

Sherlock growls and stalks off into the kitchen, presumedly to clean himself up. John gets up and follows him, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He tries to speak, but ends up bursting into more laughter.

"For God sakes..." Sherlock mutters at the sink. His ears are a bit pink.

"Oh, Sherlock," John chuckles, and hiccups himself back into sobriety. "What happened to you?"

"It's perfectly obvious what happened to me."

"You were attacked - but not by one of your enemies, I assume," John manages to say with a straight face.

Sherlock wets a cloth. "It was Mycroft."

John falls over laughing, having to lean against the wall for support. "You - that was - was that a joke? Did you just make a joke?"

"I am not incapable," Sherlock replies, frowning as he begins to wipe down his face. Once John regains a sense of himself once more, he goes over to him and takes the cloth; he will do a much better job of it. He is smiling so widely, his cheeks hurt. He pushes back Sherlock's fringe and wipes at the lipstick marks all over his forehead.

"Jesus, they were thorough, weren't they?" he chuckles. Sherlock shifts.

"How do you know there was more than one?" he asks.

"Come on. If it were one girl, she'd never have had the courage to maul you by herself. But with a girlfriend or two - sorry, Sherlock, but you really didn't have a chance." John chuckles again, picturing the scene in his mind. "No need to be embarrassed about it, though. You should be flattered."

"Flattered?" Sherlock repeats incredulously.

"Yes, it means they like what you do." John moves the cloth down his throat, and scrubs gently at the mark directly underneath his ear.

"No, John, you like what I do," Sherlock corrects him. "Those girls, however, fans though they surely are, do not like what I do; they pant and salivate over what I look like, sound like. They fall into the category of Fan Type B: My-Bedroom-is-Just-a-Taxi-Ride-Away. They have no appreciation for my work, so therefore, their opinions do not matter to me and I cannot find it within myself to feel flattered."

John finishes with the mark below the ear and moves to his nose. "Oh," he says condescendingly, pouting his lips, "lighten up. You never know. They might be huge fans of your powers of deduction, not just your cheekbones. But who can blame them if that's not the case?" he murmurs, turning his attention to a mark very close to his lips.

John very nearly drops the cloth when Sherlock blushes.