***Author's Note***

Towel Day Prompt: "Don't believe anything you read on the net. Except this. Well, including this, I suppose." ― Douglas Adams

Also, you won't have to read any of my previous stories to get into the beginning of this one. But, once you're done you may want to read "...fantastically, wildly improbable..." (available here and on AO3) if you want to know what Greg and the others are talking about.

"No. Nuh-uh. Nope." Greg sat his glass down with a bit too much force. "Don't believe it." He shook his head to punctuate his point.

"I swear to you." John held up his hand as if swearing an oath.

"All that double crossing and bribery, and you expect me to believe the murderer was the horse?" Greg was still shaking his head.

"Knocked the poor bastard right into his own knife, then trampled him to death. And that's not even the weirdest part." With a rakish grin, John took a long drink.

"Arse."

John winked and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "So, the weird part. The horse killed the trainer, right? Well he was spooked, so he did what horses do."

"He ran." Greg supplied, nodding for John to continue.

"He ran. The horse ran until he ended up on the property of a rival trainer, who of course recognized the horse as a champion racer. Instead of calling the authorities…" In his effort to contain his laughter, John wheezed a few times then failed in his attempt. "The idiot hid the horse on his property, registered it for the next race under a new name, and painted the poor thing."

Greg choked on his drink. "Wait. He painted a horse?"

"It was black, he tried to paint it white, ended up mottled grey." John covered his mouth. "Ugliest horse I ever saw."

"Christ." Greg leaned on the table to catch his breath. "No one bought it did they?"

"Not only did it work, the horse won the bloody race. It was a fucking huge deal, this mysterious new unknown winning."

"And Sherlock didn't…"

John wiped laugh tears from his eyes. "Not until it started raining. Damn horse looked like a deranged zebra."

"Oh, bloody hell." Gasping for breath, Greg laughed until his sides ached. "You putting that on the blog? You should."

"Pfff. Who'd believe it?" John waved him off and glanced around, suddenly realizing they'd gained a small, enthralled audience.

"Why does anyone believe anything you put on the blog? It's all so fantastic, if I hadn't seen half of it with my own eyes, I'd never believe it myself," Greg coughed and finished his drink.

"A fair assessment of the sentimental drivel John passes off as truth," Sherlock chuckled as he returned with their next round.

Sally pushed her way up to the table. "Sentimental drivel that's mostly about yourself, freak." The normal heat wasn't behind the statement. Sally and Sherlock had reached a mutual sort of truce after his return.

"Hag," Sherlock shot back at her. Sally winked in return. "John has always had an unhealthy obsession with me." Sherlock shrugged, the corner of his mouth quirked up slightly.

"Oi," John elbowed him and they shared a look. Greg cleared his throat.

"Uhm, speaking of blogs," the newest forensics tech spoke up. "Mr. Holmes, I have a question about yours."

"What?" Greg snorted.

Simultaneously, John laughed. "You actually read it?"

She frowned at them and nodded. "I found it fascinating. Truly brilliant."

"A worthy endeavor, I'm sure. A much better use of your time than John's blog." Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically, though he flushed under the praise. John scoffed, causing him to cough. Sherlock pushed a drink nearer to John. "Perhaps you need a drink."

"Trying to get me drunk, Holmes?" John cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed in response.

"You had a question about Sherlock's blog?" Greg chuckled.

"Uhm… Yeah. The types of ash…"

"Ah yes, a pet project." Sherlock nodded.

"Well, uhm, I… we… A couple of us in the lab, were wondering. Did you smoke all that yourself? Or…" She flushed and giggled.

"Oh god." Greg covered his eyes with his hand.

"Jenkins, you're drunk. Sit down." Sally laughed.

"He'd be dead! Though not for lack of trying." Shaking his head, John did take the drink Sherlock had offered him.

"John, there are, even now, a great many indiscretions plaguing my past that you know nothing of. That being the case," he turned to Jenkins, "no, I personally did not smoke all of those. Only most. And as a recovering addict, I am not responsible for any of the more… medicinal… samples."

John smiled and patted Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock took a sip of his drink, winced, then took another, longer drink. "Those all came from our landlady."

"What?" Greg and Sally both choked on their drinks, stunned.

"For godsake, Sherlock." Groaning, John buried his face in his hands. "You can't just…"

"What? She has a hip. It's all above board." Sherlock shrugged, then turned to Greg. "Though the next time my brother calls you for an impromptu drugs bust, if you'd be so kind as to start downstairs, John and I would both appreciate the consideration."

"Sherlock," John laughed.

"I don't believe it. I can't." Sally giggled.

"She was married to the head of a cartel for years. She kept the books."

"Sherlock, for fuck's sake. Stop." John laughed. "Don't give up all our secrets. 221b will implode in on itself."

"What secrets are you hiding, Doctor?" With a wink, Sally pulled out her mobile. "I recall reading one of those on-line celeb lists about famous people with notable military careers."

John scrunched his face. "Yeah? It's probably all made up."

"Don't feign modesty, John. You're a terrible liar." Sherlock sighed.

"Don't see how a celeb gossip column has anything to do with me." He shrugged.

"You're number four out of sixteen," Sally waved her mobile at John.

Sherlock tsk'd. "Only fourth?"

"Shut it, you." John grumbled.

"Says here you're a crack shot," Sally was looking at her mobile and missed the panicked look John shot to Sherlock. Sherlock discreetly shook his head. "Says you were a sniper with 120 confirmed kills." She stared up at him with wide eyes. Greg whistled low.

"Bloody hell," Dimmock mumbled.

"No." Shaking his head, John took a quick drink.

"No?" Sally looked crestfallen.

"Not true." John shrugged. "It's actually 132."

"What... Fuck, John." Greg grabbed his arm. "You serious?"

They stared at each other a moment and John bit his lip then laughed. "God no. Doctor, remember? RAMC. I wasn't allowed to shoot. I don't know who wrote that, but they got the wrong John Watson."

"Well, damn. I was almost impressed," Dimmock tipped his glass in a mock toast.

"Well played, Doctor," Sherlock mumbled near John's ear.

"That's classified. How'd they…" John whispered from behind his glass.

"I'm sure he's aware, but I'll contact Mycroft." Sherlock quickly bumped his shoulder against John's as a reassurance.

"Thank you," John mouthed back before turning his attention to Greg making a show of searching for something on his own mobile.

"It's just too bad there isn't some other, absolutely true, ridiculously unbelievable story about John out there. Something there were witnesses and cctv video for." Greg's grin was devious.

Clapping her hands, Sally cheered. "Yes! Oh my god, how could I forget?"

"No." John groaned and looked like he wanted to hide under the table. The forensics team and a few young PC's looked confused.

"Is this the footage you're looking for?" Sherlock held out his mobile. When John made a clumsy grab for it, Sherlock held it up just out of his reach.

"Dammit, Sherlock." John considered jumping for it. "Greg, please. You don't have to do this."

"Oh, I think I do."

"He does. He absolutely does." Sally giggled gleefully. "I wonder…"

"If I can sync my mobile with that excessively large television?" Sherlock tapped on his phone and glanced up at Sally when the grainy cctv image of John running across the roof of a building came up on the screen.

"I could kiss you, Holmes."

"I would advise against it," Sherlock took a step back.

"Oh god. I'm leaving." John finished his drink and turned to leave.

"You won't get too far," Sherlock waved John's wallet and keys at him. John growled and stalked back. "Don't be like that. After all the ridiculously excessive complimentary things you say about me, let someone say ridiculous things about you. This instance just so happens to be true, fantastic in its own right without any additional embellishment. We," he motioned to Greg and Sally, "were all witnesses."

John flushed crimson, ducked his head, and mumbled, "Just fucking get it over with, yeah?"

"All right, ladies and gents," Greg's whistle pierced the pub noise. "Gather 'round. Sherlock, Sally and I are gonna tell you a little story about our resident army doctor turned blogger turned action hero." He clapped John on the back. "It all started with two idiots in a wheelie bin, and ended with John, god of thunder, jumping off a damn building and landing on his feet."