Chapter Text
“You’ve got to be kidding?” John exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air and then laughing humourlessly with a shake of his head. “Please tell me this is some sort of bloody joke, Sherlock, because I honestly can’t believe that you expect me to go along with this?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked calmly up at him, “Does that mean you won’t do it?”
“Do you know how…how…how clichéd, this is?” John said folding his arms and lifting his eyebrows so far that he felt the skin of his brow stretch in discomfort. “How…ironic, even?”
“Still not giving me an answer, John.”
John exhaled deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose, sitting down heavily in his chair, “Sherlock, you’re asking me to pretend to be your gay lover for four weeks, perhaps longer, depending on what happens.”
Sherlock sighed in annoyance, “Yes, for a case. People are being murdered, John. Homosexual couples are being brutally killed, and the only, logical, way to get to the bottom of it is for us to pose as a couple. We won’t have to do much of anything; perhaps hold hands, smile at each other more, walk a bit more closely together, gaze nauseatingly into each others eyes like those under the love persuasion do— but you’re acting as if we’d be having sex.”
“Sherlock…” John started, pulling a face and trying to stifle the bubble of laughter at the use of the word “bottom”.
“We’d not look like ourselves, either, so it’s not like anyone would know it was us or what we will have to do. I’d like you to dye your hair, perhaps a few shades darker than you are now, and wear some glasses,” Sherlock carried on as John fought to get a handle on his childish reactions. “I’ll dye and cut my own hair and possibly wear glasses too; glasses do wonders to conceal identity.”
John eyed him silently for a few moments as he reigned in his composure, “What colour hair are you going for?”
Sherlock shrugged, “Ginger,” he replied, frowning when John spluttered and dissolved into uncontrollable giggles. “And why, may I ask, is that so amusing?”
“Ginger?” John repeated through his laughter, “Oh God! Yes. Fine. I’ll do it, if only to see you with ginger hair!”
Sherlock huffed and stood up, looking at himself in the mirror, “You think it won’t suit me or something?”
John laughed hard in reply and wiped tears from his eyes as Sherlock stomped into his room in a strop, his black curls bouncing with his movements and making John laugh even harder than before, prompting him to slip off his chair in a giggling heap.
❀ ❀ ❀
Strangely, Sherlock suited ginger hair very well, so well in fact, that John could only stare and frown in shock, wondering if he had tried to be ginger beforehand or if he had been ginger all along and had only washed the dark brunette dye out instead. John himself looked much the same, just with darker hair and glasses, and he sighed when he moved to stand next to Sherlock in front of the mirror, watching as Sherlock arranged his shorter curly hair and black-rimmed glasses.
“I just look like what I imagined a brother of mine would look like,” John muttered. “You, however, look like a really fancy nerd. Nerd chic, is what they call what you have going on I think, or Nerdy chic, one of the two.”
Sherlock turned to stare at him in confusion, “You’re just talking gibberish.”
“It’s not gibberish, it’s honestly a fashion…thing,” John muttered, waving a hand and then flicking Sherlock’s glasses with a half-hearted glare. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Nerd chic?” Sherlock repeated as he righted his frames and looked back at his reflection, tugging at his bowtie. “Sounds like a disease or something. “I’m terribly sorry Mrs. Doyle but your son has caught the Nerd chic. He’ll never speak again.””
John snorted with a smirk and shrugged, “Well, I might be wrong about the name, but you definitely have a style to your disguise—Which reminds me, I assume we have different names and IDs to go with them?”
Sherlock whipped out said IDs with a grin and a flourish, “Yes. Here you are. I have a story about how we met and where and all that other romantic, relationship nonsense, as well by the way. You’ll have to memorise it on the way there.”
“Hang on,” John frowned as he looked at his ID. “I’m still John.”
“No,” Sherlock said, leaning over to tap at it with his fingertip. “It says John Hardwicke.”
John shot Sherlock an exasperated look, “Yes, but I’m still John. Whereas your name is completely different!”
Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Your name is generic, and so you can get away with keeping your name, whereas I, cannot. Sherlock is not so common. So I’m now Jeremy Rathbone.”
“It’s going to be so weird and extremely different to call you Jeremy,” John mumbled as he eyed the IDs in closer detail. “You’ve kept most of my personal information the same—that’s not fair, Sherlock! How come you get to be several years younger than you actually are but I have to remain the same age? What are you, my toy boy?”
“…I don’t know what that is?” Sherlock laughed shortly, the quirk and twist of his mouth saying he knew exactly what it was and that it was his plan all along.
John threw the ID at his head hard, catching Sherlock in the temple skilfully, “You’re a right arse, Sherlock.”
“Jeremy,” Sherlock corrected with a scowl, fingering the red mark at his head with a slight pout. “Why don’t you go and start memorising what I wrote out last night? It’s on my bed.”
“Fine,” John huffed, yanking on the bowtie to unravel it with a smirk. “Why are you wearing that? It looks silly.”
“Bowties are cool,” Sherlock replied with a deep frown, swatting John away and then glowering at him when John gaped with a curling smile. “What?”
“Nothing, Doctor,” John sniggered, strolling into Sherlock’s bedroom and picking up the ten page document with a look of pure displeasure. “Jesus, Sherlock, could you have made it any longer?”
“Jeremy!” Sherlock exclaimed. “And you’re still the doctor, John, thought it made sense, plus is makes it easier for you, I know you’re not good at thinking on your feet. Also yes, I could have indeed made it longer, but I cut out a lot because, well, you can hardly recall the shopping list, let alone remember a twenty page—ow!” Sherlock turned around to face a grinning John as he adjusted the rolled up document in his hands like a cricket bat. “Immature.”
“Tons of fun, though,” John retorted, swatting Sherlock once more for good measure as he passed. “Where are we heading again?”
“La France,” Sherlock replied in perfect French. “Nice; du Sud-Est de la France, préfecture du département des Alpes-Maritimes et deuxième ville de la région Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur derrière Marseille.” *
John let out a long breath through his nose in frustration, “Okay, Wikipedia. Good thing I still remember some French from High School.”
"Tu sais parler français?" *
“Oui,” John replied with a wry smile.
Sherlock smirked over at him and then strolled arrogantly into his bedroom for his suitcase, "Ne t'inquiète pas John. Je te le dirai si tu fais des erreurs." *
“Expert on the French language, are you?” John scoffed, moving to his own room to finish his own packing. “Of course we’re going to France, where else would a seemingly gay couple go? If he gives me a rose or sings me a sonnet I will punch him in the face.”