1.

It had been something of a trying day at 221b Baker Street.

John Watson woke at six in the morning—a full hour before his alarm went off—to the sounds of glass breaking in the kitchen. Used to his flat-mate's strange behavior, he rolled over in an attempt to ignore the noise, but the smell of something burning seeped into his room and pulled him fully out of dreamland. Mumbling groggy curses, John staggered out of bed and down the hall, pulling his robe over his pajamas.

"Sherlock?" he called. "What in the world—"

He stopped in the doorway to the kitchen, staring in dismay at the jumbled mess strewn across every flat surface.

Sherlock Holmes, still fully dressed and obviously sleep-deprived, was crouching on the floor with his cheek pressed to the tiles, squinting at what appeared to be a glass-encrusted ham, which lay under the table in a puddle of its own juice and the remains of several wine glasses.

"Morning, John," he said cheerfully. "I just discovered how Gerald Lowell got away with the murder of his stepmother two years ago."

John's mouth opened, and closed again. He narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips into a flat line. "What - is - burning?" he asked, carefully separating each word.

"What? Oh."

Sherlock stood, and flicked the burner off on the stove. "Forgot about the…the that." He waved vaguely at some unidentifiable mass blackening in a skillet. "Open the window."

That was the last straw. John took in a deep breath through his nose, opened his mouth, and began to shout, "Sherlock—"

Then he stopped.

"Wait," he said.

Sherlock, ready to ignore John's impending rant, was surprised into paying attention. "What?"

"What's your middle name?"

Sherlock blinked, and it was as if a concrete wall slammed into place behind his eyes. To John's surprise, he found himself completely unable to read his flatmate's expression. Since coming to live in 221b, John had learned how to decipher the detective's tiny changes in expression and could usually pick up on Sherlock's thought process as well as anyone less brilliant than the detective could. He was used to a certain impassivity in his friend's features, of course. Sherlock, after all, prided himself on his ability to control his emotions and keep his face deadpan in all situations.

This, though…this was something on a new level entirely.

John, taken aback, cocked his head. "It's a simple question, Sherlock—no need to give me a death glare."

"Why do you want to know?" Sherlock's voice was deadly quiet.

Feeling more and more uncertain, John shrugged. "You can't properly shout at someone until you know their middle name," he explained. "I always knew when my mum was really mad at me because she would shout, 'John Hamish Watson' loud enough for the neighbors to hear."

"I'll clean up the ham."

John blinked. "Great—but that doesn't answer my question."

"No, it doesn't. And I won't."

"You aren't going to tell me your middle name?"

"No, John. I'm not. And I would greatly appreciate it if you never brought the matter up again. Good? Great. Now. I'll just clean up this ham and we'll go down to the Yard and talk to Lestrade, mm? Good."

And with that, Sherlock proceeded to ignore John right out of the kitchen. The ex-soldier stumped back up the stairs to his bedroom to get dressed, his curiosity royally aroused. With name like Sherlock and Mycroft, he knew that the Holmes family didn't exactly go for "normal" monikers, but Sherlock's reaction seemed rather extreme. It took a lot to really bother the lanky detective—John should know, he'd poked at the limits enough. Irritating Sherlock was easy, but actually getting under that tough, everyone-else-is-beneath-my-notice skin was harder.

Which meant that whatever middle name the Holmes parents had given Sherlock had to be something spectacular. John knew him well enough to know that he wouldn't be budging on the matter—he was determined to keep it secret.

And John was just as determined to find it out.