The first time John saw the Doctor he was wearing nothing but a towel.

I mean, John wasn't complaining; all that running had done the Doctor good but hell, meeting your new neighbour usually means wearing clothes. Usually being the operative word.

"Johnny!" The Doctor had laughed, pulling John in for a hug as if they were old friends. John was dressed to impress; his jumper ironed (ironed! By Mrs Hudson, but you needn't know that) all ready for a night out with Sarah, but the woollen material quickly dampened from the press of wet skin.

And now he was being hugged. In the hallway. By a wet man.

Hm. Kinky.

"Blimey-" John pushed slightly at the strangers shoulders peeling in from his sodden jumper. "Just, who are you, exactly?"

The man grinned, pointing a finger jovially in John's face, who recoiled, back straight. John knew he wasn't an unattractive man (he hadn't gained the nickname Three Continents Watson for nothing, I'll tell you that much, the dirty boy) but even he was surprised at the contact between him and half-naked soaking wet man with lovely, lovely hai-

Not that he was looking. Nope. Not John Watson.

"I'm the Doctor," the man leant and air kissed John's left cheek, then the other, grinning all the while and smelling of strawberry shower gel. "I'm your new lodger! The lodger of two hundred and twenty one C Baker Street. Well, not your lodger, Mrs Hudson's. She told me you and your boyfriend live upstairs together. Not really one for boyfriends, me, much too busy, whizzing around-"

John coughed violently in surprise and chagrin; his lungs suddenly trying to make an escape. "He's not- Sherlock's not- I- I'm not-"

The Doctor waved his hands in front of John's face, "Yes, yes, whatever boyfriend, friend, partner, love buddy it's all the same to me-"

Nooo, I don't want to be discussing my sexuality with you random lodger, let me go to my date in peace. Frankly, I'll need a damn shag after this.

"You said you were a Doctor? Where did you train?" Get off the subject; get off the subject, ABORT MISSION, I REPEAT, ABORT!

A small tut. "I said I was The Doctor, not A Doctor, although that's a bad name, 'Hello, I'm A Doctor.' No, no, doesn't have the same ring to it."

"Right." Mrs Hudson must have some sort of magnet for weird men with cheekbones like landmarks. You could loose an eye on those. John scratched his nose, "And you're… living here on your own?"

"Yes indeed! Well, until a certain Amelia Pond shows up, she went and left me. She left me! Can you believe it?"

"Yeah, yeah-" John wasn't listening anymore. He checked the time on his watch. "Look, mate, I've gotta go…"

The Doctor gave a curt nod, raising his eyebrows. "Aah, big date is it? You know what you need! A bowtie!"

Before John could protest – or indeed even begin to take in whatever this half-naked man was blabbing on about – the Doctor had zipped back into the open door of 221c and returned seconds later brandishing a black bowtie.

"Go on, put it on, put it on!" The Doctor thrust the bowtie into John's hands, who was far to bewildered to do anything but blink three hundred times a second.

With one hand holding his towel in place, the other pushing John towards the front door, the Doctor spoke full speed ahead, practically eating his own mouth his haste.

"-can't see how she'll resist you with that baby around your neck. One time back when I was ooh- 300 years younger, you know how it is the years start to get a bit fuzzy after 500, I wore one of these to a nightclub on Clom, purely for a dare I'll have you know, Sarah Jane said I didn't have the guts and I told her otherwise, ah, showed her otherwise, and almost instantly-"

John was deposited onto Baker Street, feathers ruffled, staring back at the Doctor who was, miraculously, still talking.

"-wasn't really sure what to do, I've done all that kissing business before but-"

Mercifully, a taxi drove past and John flung his hand out to hail it.

Must. Get. Away. Cannot compute. Cannot. Compute.

"Sorry, can we talk about this later?" John indicated at the taxi with his hand, "It's just…"

"Yes! Yes! Go woo that chick." The Doctor gave him a double thumbs up and backed into 221, chuckling to himself.

"Bloody hell."

John clamoured into the taxi, eyes wide with shell shock. "Can you take me to Café JAX, please." He instructed the driver and fished in his pocket for his phone. Pulling it out he typed up a message.

TO: SHERLOCK

Just met our new neighbour.

Am scarred for life.

JW

He sent it with a smirk and leaned back into the seat of the cab. Two man men in 221? This was not going to end well.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Over the next couple of days, John pretty much contemplated carving out the deep recessed of his brain with the blunted object he could find.

Sherlock had reacted badly to the new lodger. He'd taken one look at the lanky, tweed-clad man (John had let out a silent sigh of relief; it was nice to know the man owned clothes), and instantly crowed into his personal space, a frown line carving itself between his eyebrows.

Then without a word, he'd returned to 221b, thrown himself in gay abandon on the sofa and refused to speak another word for the rest of the evening.

Except to ask for tea. The git.

A week passed, and Sherlock was still gloomy, the frown line threatening to become a permanent blot on his otherwise flawless features. It wasn't long before John had had enough.

He tried the old SURPRISE! QUESTION tactic; slipping the old question into any which conversation.

At the supermarket, "I wonder if The Doctor needs some more teabags, what do you think, Sherlock?"

No reply.

Coming back from work, "I wonder what the Doctor does for a living; you should know Sherlock…"

Equally no reply.

When they heard mysterious banging (he's not having sex, he's not having sex, I wonder if he's having sex) and groans from the lower flat, "I bet he's got a girlfriend. He's quite good looking in a weird way, that Doctor."

This had provoked a defiant, "Oh, if you love him so much why don't you marry him?" from Sherlock in the middle of Hyde Park; scaring numerous old ladies and causing a pigeon to shat itself. Impressive.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

John's curiosity did nothing but grow. He only saw the Doctor on occasions, fleeting moments before the whirlwind of tweed was off into the distance, a fez firmly fixed on top of his head like an extra limb.

The man was simply fascinating. Despite the first impressions John had complied, the man was charming, funny, if not a prostitute short of a corner, if you catch my drift. John couldn't help but feel drawn to him. He started to look forward the little chats they'd share in the hallway, but never for long, as the Doctor always had somewhere to be, something to do, someone else to thrust his ideas upon.

But as the Doctor and John got friendlier; the more Sherlock drew back into his shell.

It was weird. John didn't even notice at first, he thought Sherlock was just going into one of his between-case moods, not eating and fixating all his attention on blasting the poor wall with as many rounds as he could get his hands on. He became snappier; bursting into spiteful remarks at the smallest of things.

Apparently it was wrong for John to get up late, for him to get up early, for him to wear white, for him take the bus to work, it was wrong for him to take the tube.

"But Johnnn," Sherlock whined for the fourth time in one week. "Can't you see the appalling state of hygiene, on both bus and tube, the amount of pathogens in one carriage could easily-"

"Not listening, eating bacon." Was John's reply, letting out a "GAAH!" as a pillow was aimed at his head. It missed. But still.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

John continued to chat and interact with the Doctor, even getting invited back to 221c on several occasions. The flat was an absolute mess, piles shoulder-high of paperwork in dozens of languages that were way beyond John's GSCE French and German. Articles on mysterious findings were pinned to the wall.

"HARRIET JONES TO RESIGN" said one.

"BIG BEN IN TATTERS" said another.

John remembered those events clearly; the spaceship ripping at Big Ben's face could be heard from Baker Street. He and Sherlock had been drinking tea, laughing over little things (John was attempting to grow a moustache to make him look more respectable. Sherlock told him he looked like a paedophile) when a huge shattering sound shook the flat. They'd both jumped to their feet (Sherlock grabbing John's hand in fright, then refusing to accept he'd done it later that evening) and ran to investigate, but by the time they'd got there the police had roped the area off, and even Sherlock's credentials couldn't gain him a way in.

All the news stories seemed focused on alien or supernatural activity. The Titanic nearly crushing Buckingham Palace; when the BBC had broadcasted a hoax alien encounter, which turned out to be real when the sky was eclipsed by a rock-like 'spaceship'. John only remembered part of that; he'd come out a trance and found himself on the roof of 221b, a frightened Sherlock trying to hold him from the edge.

The BBC had has a field day trying to explain that fiasco.

It was obvious there was something about the Doctor Sherlock didn't like. John tried not to think about this; Sherlock had his quirks and this was one of them. No big deal. But that didn't stop it niggling at his brain.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was 7:21pm. John flicked shut the book he'd been idly skimming, a medical journal, and returned it to its place on the shelf. He turned and eyed Sherlock, shoulders slumping.

"Are you done sulking, Sherlock? It's just I'd quite like to watch Merlin and you've been smacking yourself in the chin with the remote for the past few hours like it's actually going to do something for you."

Sherlock scoffed gently from his position on the sofa. He had laid himself across it completely; hands clasped in the prayer position with the remote sandwiched in-between them. His eyes were closed, but flitted restlessly behind his lids.

"Not sulking." Sherlock grunted. "Thinking."

"Yeah, right."

Turning, John bent to adjust the telly manually, fiddling with the buttons like he actually knew what he was doing.

"You really are irritating when you want to be, aren't you?"

"It's a skill of mine I've perfected over the years."

John smirked, then grimaced; smacking the side of the TV as static ran like water over the screen.

"I wonder if the Doctor knows how to fix tellies."

Whoops.

There was silence for a moment; so thick it pulsed through the flat with vehement force. John could practically feel Sherlock's gaze spearing his back, and thanked the nearest deity his expression couldn't be seen.

"I didn't know your interest in him ran so deep, John."

Sherlock's voice was practically a growl. John shuddered.

"Sherlock, don't-"

"Don't what? " Sherlock spat, seething. "Is your infatuation with this man ever going to fucking end?"

Woh. Who- what was-? Sherlock never swore. Ever. A violent shiver ran down John's back and he turned. Sherlock hadn't moved from his position on the sofa, his face still smooth and expressionless.

"What the hell are you going on about? You've been acting real weird lately, ever since the Doctor arrived, what is up with you?"

Sherlock's mouth shut so fast John heard the clink of enamel on enamel.

"Well?"

"I'd quite like to move on from the subject."

"No, fuck you!" John bit then steadied himself, trying not to get too riled up. "I've had to put up with you sulking like a bloody teenager for weeks now, are you going to tell me what your problem is or not?"

Sherlock pouted slightly, his full lips pushing upwards. With a sudden spurt of energy he twisted on the sofa so he was sitting instead of lying and threw the remote at John with more force than was strictly necessary. It hit John's left shoulder with a resounding smack.

That must have hurt.

Oh shit.

Not good. Bit not good. Really bit not good.

John froze completely, and Sherlock watched as his back straightened and tensed; a reflex action – an old habit from the army meaning he was pissed. Properly pissed this time. Sherlock knew enough about John's habits (three years of watching – gazing, would be more appropriate - him had well equip on those) to know what was coming. He never liked upsetting John, and it was all too apparent he'd pushed him too far this time.

"John, I-"

Sherlock stopped; his throat constricting. The flat suddenly seemed too small, filled with pounding silence. Movement caught his eye; John's fists curling and uncurling from beneath his too long sleeves.

"Don't follow me." John growled. He got his temper from his alcoholic of a dad; and it certainly left something to be desired.

He'd only lost his temper like this once before with Sherlock, which had ended up in both of them sporting bleeding noses. Afterwards they'd hugged – actually hugged! – and apologised over and over, nursing their wounds.

It was all too obvious from John's tone there would be a repeat of this if Sherlock followed, but upon impulse he did. John was storming down the stairs; his anger almost visible in waves rolling off him, with the intention of walking out onto Baker Street and not stopping until his feet burned.

"Do you ever just back off?" John snarled, reaching downstairs hallway and turning on his heels to confront the man tailing him. His mind was hazing over with anger; red tingeing the edge of his vision.

"You never gave me a chance to apologise!" Sherlock whined. This wasn't how it was supposed to work!

"No, Sherlock, I'm fed up of your apologises and your dodging of my questions, and the way you've pushed me away lately! I've tried to be civil, I really have, but now you're pushing it!"

A door creaked, spooking the both of them. The Doctor was grimacing, his fingers dancing and jerking like they weren't used to staying still.

"I heard shouting, thought I'd investigate." He peered out from 221c, his looks alternating between John's rage filled face, and Sherlock's pale stricken one.

"You stay out of this." Sherlock snarled, his mouth twitching down at one corner. "This is between me and John, keep your over-sized head and lack of brain thereof out of our business."

O-oh, John almost lost it then, I'll tell you. Sherlock caught John's expression in the corner of his eye and backed right off, recognising the signs he'd gone too far. The Doctor looked mildly amused, his eyes glinting.

John wanted to punch something. Hard.

"Have you told our Johnny yet?" The Doctor asked, almost timidly. "I would say, but I don't want to put my foot in it."

"Nothing you haven't done before," Sherlock retorted. At first John thought he was imagining things, but then he realised, no – he was right; there was the faint gleam of fright behind Sherlock's grey eyes.

John's anger lessened at this, opening his mouth to speak, but the Doctor got their first.

"You haven't told him? Sherly! How rude! If you don't tell him, I'll have to, that's how it works, tit for tat and all that. Ooh, that rhymed."

"Don't." Sherlock pleaded. "Please. Don't."

John almost fell back in surprise. Sherlock, begging? The anger that had raged through his veins was leaking out being replaced by raw shock.

"What the hell is going on?" John exploded, his brain throbbing. "You're both keeping something from me, aren't you? What's this big secret, what's wrong with you two?"

Sherlock fixed his gaze on the Doctor, looking as if he was trying to burn him with his eyes. The Doctor tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, the childish grin he so often worse returning to his face. He took a step forward and gave Sherlock a poke in the arm.

"Don't touch me." Sherlock batted the hand away, and for the first time ever since John had met him, The Doctor seemed hurt.

"Sherlock…" the Doctor chided. "You're not embarrassed by your old dad, are you?"

"Wh-what?" John backed up a few steps, he must have misheard. He had to have misheard. "He's your-?"

"Father. My father." Sherlock let out a sigh of resignation and looked sheepishly at the floor.

"Good looks run in the family, eh?" The Doctor thrust his chin the air, obviously happy to have finally surfaced this secret.

No, no, no this is a joke, this is a dream, this isn't happening, SHUT DOWN, SHUT EVERYTHING DOWN.

He looked between the two of them, mouth hanging open.

Well, shit.