"What are you doing?" Sherlock swept over like a breeze of musk and peered over John's shoulder like a hawk.
"I'm on google." He barely turned his head to look at his flatmate.
"What's a google?" He said with the neutrality of an amnesiac.
"It's a site where you search for whatever you want to read about on the internet."
"It's an algorithym database."
"Er, yeah sure. Probably." He'd learnt to glaze over at the big words, it was humiliating to continually ask for explanations. The detective placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and leant slightly forward, unnerving eyes fixed on the screen. After a moment, he had to ask.
"Why are you using it? The input box is blank." Sherlock thought he was looking up porn again and waiting for him to leave.
"Oh, really?" The sarcastic tone only John could pick up on, barely there beneath a veil of pseudo-politeness.
"Yep. PR. I google myself and see what people think about me."
"Surely that doesn't work, John." It was amazing how little his flatmate thought of other people, an alien quality that, while usually charming, was occasionally disturbing. His mind flickered back to the retort at Anderson, but John shook his head, resolved Sherlock was too obsessed with justice and doing the right thing to be a true sociopath. Mostly.
"It works, here, we can google ourselves and see what they think of us."
"People. Regular people. Like the people who read my- er, our blogs." Sherlock let the slip-up go. John typed "sherlock holmes john watson". Sherlock chuckled because John put his name first, a sign of sentiment. Thankfully, the Grazi didn't mention the lack of capitalisations.
After a few seconds of lag flicker, the suggestions box appeared.
Sherlock's eyes widened and his nostrils flared, his mouth thinned but he said nothing regarding the suggestions.
Sherlock broke his stony silence since John had spoken first. "Humans are so obsessed with sex. What matter is the nature of our relationship to them? They don't know us."
John tapped the table gently, thinking. "People care about these things."
"Why? Why do they care?"
"It's seen as a necessary requirement of humanity, love." Sherlock shot him a fiery look, like a dragon. John shrunk a little in his chair. " Er. You're sorta famous. People think it's their business to know about someone, even if they only know that person's name. It's kinda sweet, really, they idolise the successful and the funny and the talented, and you're so talented, Sherlock-"
Sherlock stood, technically towered over John. "Run the image search." He wasn't falling for the flattery.
"No." He knew being stubborn was useless, but he was proving a point.
John breathed deeply and clicked the blue Image button, same colour as Sherlock's eyes, he thought. Up popped 178,622 results. All with that hideous hat, at various sizes to insult the eyes.
"The hat. Again. Why the hat?"
"People like the hat." It was adorable, in a weird way. Seeing such a noble man brought down.
"It's a silly hat."
"That's why people like it." He would say it showed his funny side, but Sherlock was more funny-weird than funny-ha-ha, and he wasn't saying that out loud to a man who owned a gun, a riding crop, recreational opium and god knows what else under that bed of his.
"I suppose the only way to make the genius brain under the hat more relatable is with a silly hat."
"Let's go with that."
Sherlock tied up his dressing gown firmly, with determination. "We're going hat shopping." Hands on his hips.
"I thought you didn't like hats." Historically they showed deference, or so Sherlock once told him. And Sherlock deferred to no one.
"Oh, not for me." He grinned wickedly and strode into the kitchen to check on the thumbs.
"Why do I need a hat?" John called over, whining. Sherlock wandered in, scribbling on a notepad.
"Because I have one. We're partners, right? Partners, -cough- professionally, of course."
"I'm not going round in a silly hat. You already have the swishy badass coat." John pointed at it accusingly on the coat stand.
Sherlock turned on his heel to look over at it. "You like my coat?"
"I didn't say that. But I need something badass too, like, shades..."
"We live in England. There is no sun here." Sherlock delivered in a perfect deadpan.
"I noticed, Dracula." John matched it.
Sherlock tutted. "I'm only pale because I spend so much time indoors conducting experiments." He waved a hand over the notepad.
"I saw your school pictures. You don't age."
"You don't like people."
"People aren't likeable."
"You only go out at night."
"Less people around."
"You don't eat."
"I'm not hungry. Why, do you want to go out?"
"Yeah, now you mention it I am kinda hung- wait a minute! Don't do that! Not to me!"
Sherlock's eyes lit up, "Do what?" Sherlock loved playing mind games, a worrying trait he shared with his brother and Moriarty.
"Trap me like that. With your feigned innocence and your-" he spluttered, "WORDS."
"Would you prefer I converse by interpretive dance?" Sherlock grabbed the skull on the mantelpiece and held it aloft, striking the Hamlet pose.
"I'd probably understand more of your deductions."
Sherlock pouted and dropped the skull to his side.
"Are you implying I'm a poor communicator?"
John facepalmed, smooshing his face with the palm in a mildly massaging manner.
"Christ, no wonder they think we're a couple."
The corner of Sherlock's mouth flickered up, looking down at John in his hedgehog jumper. His head inclined to one side like a curious otter. "Dinner?"
John looked back at the screen, with screensaver bubbles now all over the offending suggestions. "...Fuck it." He closed the laptop. "I'll get my coat."
Sherlock grabbed the bottom hem corners of his dressing gown as John passed, jerked them erratically from side to side and said in a sing-song voice "Swishy-swishy!"
"Fuck you." John growled.
Sherlock fell back on the sofa from cackling so hard.