Disclaimer: I own nothing.

My fics are turning ridiculous, I know it, but y'all will just have to deal with it or go read something else.

Rated K+ for cursing.

WARNING, PLEASE READ: In the second chapter, there's a big spoiler for the film Brokeback Mountain. If you haven't seen it and don't want it spoiled, then maybe you should avoid reading this (I'd suggest Brokeback Mountain though, if you haven't seen it. Especially as slash fans, you might like it. It will rip your heart out and step on it, but I enjoyed it a great deal. So you can go watch it and THEN read this fic). The other films mentioned I avoid spoiling.

'Angry' really doesn't cut it this time. Furious? Maybe. Enraged? Closer. But mostly he's just baffled. They've been friends for a very long time. Too long. He's seen the world's only consulting detective at his most insensitive. But still, he didn't expect something like this, not even from Sherlock Holmes.

John was on a date. Her name was Margery.

Before he even left for the restaurant, Sherlock made known his viable and totally logical argument against the outing.

"Margery? What kind of name is that?" he asked distastefully from the settee, where he was examining his skull closely for some god-forsaken reason.

"Seriously, Sherlock?" John asked, putting emphasis on his own less-than-common name.

"I choose to go by my middle name, because William is far too mundane for my taste."

"What, a name can't be too boring, but can't be too unusual either? You're sure hard to please."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "My point is, I chose mine, whereas she just was given an unfortunate name and stayed with it. Which means she's boring and you'll hate her."

John sighed tiredly. "I get that you're a genius and all, but you haven't even met her. You can't make deductions when you haven't even seen her."

"In this case, I don't need to see her. So there you go, no need to waste your time on her, glad that's decided. Want to order a takeaway? Chinese, perhaps?"

John looked at him in annoyed bewilderment for a long moment before saying, "Sherlock, nothing's decided. I'm going to that place on Northumberland street and you can't bully me out—"

Sherlock had slowly sat up while John was speaking before saying, in a strange voice, "You're going where?"

John blinked. "That place you took me when we first met. It's very good. I take dates there sometimes."

"I didn't know that."

"Did I need to tell you that, mum?" John asked mockingly.

"Well it's just—you—" Sherlock grunted in frustration. "Oh, whatever, go waste your whole night on a boring strumpet, what do I care?" He curled up into a ball facing the back of the couch.

"Strumpet?" John asked his back indignantly. "Now you're just being childish."

"Are we still having this conversation?" Sherlock said, not looking at John. "I thought you were going somewhere."

John glared at him for a long moment before huffing in irritation and storming out of the flat.

So John thought that was that.

But apparently John had made a grave mistake in telling Sherlock where the date was going to be.

John and Margery had been chatting for less than a half hour. Not long enough for their food to have arrived. She wasn't a bad woman. She was decently pretty, and she was pretty clever—clever enough to own her own business in London, a nice tea shop that doubled as a flower shop.

Admittedly, she wasn't the most interesting person in the world. John couldn't see himself falling passionately in love with her or anything. But she was pleasant, and conversation with her was comfortable. There wasn't any awkwardness, not even when they were just meeting, and he liked that. He could have a good time with her, he knew that already.

The man who owned the store remembered him. He always did. Called him 'Sherlock's friend', even though he knew John's name by now.

That was the first thing he and Margery talked about.

"Angelo seems very fond of this Sherlock fellow. Is he a good friend of yours?"

John didn't bring up that they were flatmates right off. It wasn't a good very first detail to tell a woman, that you shared a place with another man. Most weren't judgmental or anything, but the assumption that he was gay had come up once or twice.

So he said, "In a manner of speaking, yes. We work together occasionally."

"Doing what?"

John didn't really want to talk about Sherlock, but he was able to avoid the question by thanking Angelo for their drinks and then change the subject smoothly enough that she didn't notice.

That's when they started actually talking and he was enjoying himself.

And then someone sat next to them at the table, and John was about to turn and ask (not so nicely) if the person was lost—

And there at the table next to him, with his collar up to look cool and his dead, cold eyes, was Sherlock.

John couldn't speak. His jaw just dropped and he gaped.

Margery was looking at John for an explanation that he was unable to give. So after a very uncomfortable couple of seconds, Sherlock turned to her with his false smile and manners and said, "Hello. Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh," she said in surprise. "Yes, we were just talking about you."

Sherlock looked smug. "Oh, I see. All good things?"

"Well… we didn't say much… what are you doing here, exactly." She was now looking between John and Sherlock questioningly. John had stopped staring now and had resorted to a hard glare.

"I just had business in the area and saw John. I wasn't aware I was interrupting anything. I'm very sorry. I can go."

This wasn't happening. God, this wasn't happening. Sherlock was playing her. That was immediately obvious. He already knew what type of person she was, and that was the type that would be polite even if it meant something she didn't prefer happened.

"Oh, it's alright," she said with a smile. "You can stay if you like."

John wanted to slap a hand to his forehead.

This wasn't happening. That was his mantra, over and over.

"Oh, good." Sherlock said with another grin. "So, Margery. Margery…"

She didn't ask how he knew her name, but it was obvious the thought crossed her mind. "Winston."

"Margery Winston. Uh huh. Alright, and you have three cats. You own a shop in central London. It sells flowers—no wait. Tea. Both? Yes, both. You—"

As soon as Sherlock started his deductions, John's face had gone into his hands. He was still unable to speak at first, but then he realised he had to stop this. "Sherlock, dear god, please stop."

"Oh, I'm just getting to know your friend."

"I don't know why the fuck you're here, but just leave. Now."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll move out."

He didn't mean to say it, but now Margery knew.

And even her polite nature didn't stop her from saying something. "You live together?" she asked.

"For quite a while, yes. I do detective work, he blogs about it, it's quite fun. But we weren't talking about me. We were talking about you." Margery was figuring out that Sherlock wasn't here innocently now. She looked very uncomfortable. But she said nothing as Sherlock continued, "You used to work in hospital work, which was what interested you in John in the first place on his profile. You were the direct cause of a patient's death, however, and left the profession."

Margery now looked angry. Really angry.

"Well," she said, standing up stiffly. She was about to cry. Obviously Sherlock had just brought up her darkest secret, something buried deep and hoped never to about again. And he'd done it on purpose. "It was nice to meet you, John."

And she stormed out.

So here they are now, on their way up to the flat. John hasn't talked to Sherlock the whole way back.

Sherlock's low sometimes. Petty too. But this… this was real cruelty. Usually, when Sherlock says horrible things to people, he doesn't know why it would hurt them. And sure, that's irritating in itself, but at least you know he isn't being mean for the fun of it. He just doesn't understand why the truth hurts people.

But this time, John saw it in his eyes. Sherlock was trying to hit her where it hurt. He was being hateful for the hell of it, and he was enjoying it.

And that's too much for John to handle.

John was planning on sitting down, but he's so angry he can't even bring himself to sit. He just stands near the doorway—far enough that Sherlock can come inside and shut the door, but close enough that he's in Sherlock's personal space when he does so—and glares up at him.

"Alright, get the lecture over with," Sherlock says blandly.

John huffs a breath out his nose angrily. "No. You don't get to be blasé about this. Margery was—

"Dull! That's what she was!"

"No. Sherlock. No." He's shaking his head. "She was kind. And I was having a nice time, and you came and spoiled it! You brought up something to hurt her intentionally. I let all the things you say go because usually you aren't trying to be mean, unless they were mean first. But that time you punished her because you were mad at me, and that's not fair."

"Mad at you? John, don't be—"

John doesn't want to hear it. He tries to be sensitive when Sherlock shows his soft side, for the most part. He knows how much it scares Sherlock. But he doesn't have the patience to be kind. He isn't sure Sherlock deserves it. So he says, "You only got really cross when you knew where we were going. You just had hurt feelings that I was taking her to a place we go, to a place you associate with our friendship, but instead of telling me that, you acted out like a child. You're just afraid of your feelings and we both know it."

Sherlock gets a cold look in his eyes. John's never seen a look of real denial on Sherlock's face, but he wonders if that's what this is. "John, that's ridiculous. I was just saving you some trouble. If I were capable of crying, she would bore me to tears, and I didn't—"

John finds himself surprised enough that his anger subsides for a moment. "Capable of crying? What do you mean by that?"

Sherlock raises a brow. "I mean what I said."

"You can't cry?" John asks incredulously.

"No. Of course not. Not since I learned to communicate my grievances with words."

And in John's fury at Sherlock, he gets an idea. A horrible, perfect idea.

And because of this idea, when Sherlock says a moment later, "You have any more complaints, or are we done?"

Sherlock's obviously expecting more. John doesn't give it to him. He sighs, and he says, "Well, she was pretty boring. I guess it's not so horrible."

Sherlock looks surprised. Maybe even a little suspicious. But he lets it go, because Sherlock hates fighting with John. And he doesn't believe John can cook up a plan this devious, surely.

So Sherlock nods and goes over to the kitchen to work on an experiment.

"But don't do it in the future," John adds brusquely, just to make sure Sherlock doesn't suspect anything from John letting him off so easily.

"Yes, okay," he mutters, with no sincerity whatsoever. It only reinforces the brilliance of the idea in John's mind.

And John knows his plan is evil, but he can't help but think that after all the things Sherlock has done to other people… maybe he deserves a little hurt himself.

It's simple, really, John's plan. Well, the idea of it is. The execution is more complicated.

Sherlock says he can't cry. John doesn't believe it, and he wants to prove the detective wrong.

He'd seen Sherlock after he saw the Hound. Sure, he wasn't crying, but he was highly affected by it. Anyone that can be affected that much about anything can cry, if given enough reason to.

John wants to find out what it is.

He knows it'll be difficult, but somehow he's decided it's worth it.

Sherlock's his friend, and he knows somewhere inside that it's beyond fucked up to try to upset someone emotionally to the point of crying—especially since for someone like Sherlock, it might take something severe to do it—but he's just so convinced that the self-proclaimed sociopath deserves it that he can't feel bad about it.