"Naw, I cannae- naw! Aye and whit gave ye that idea, ye daft fuckin' eejit?"

Sherlock was leaning on the kitchen table, studiously checking the agar that he had left incubating overnight- but John's yelling from his upstairs room carried down loud enough for him to hear close to every word. He quirked an eyebrow at the sound and slowly turned his head to look in the direction of the hallway. It was John, certainly (mid-pitched voice, turned slightly higher by his apparent anger)- but it was a very different John than Sherlock was used to hearing.

He dropped the lid back on the contaminated agar he had been examining (the effects of natural antibiotics on an E-Coli culture) and brushed his hands together as though it might actually serve as a substitute for washing. The experiment was interesting enough to occupy his mind for a time, but it now seemed as though he had something far more curious to consider.

He walked quietly through to the hallway, and stood at the bottom of the stairs to the upper floor- he thought he could successfully identify what he had heard, but he wanted to catch another snippet before passing judgement (he was human, despite the doubts of many- it was possible that he had misheard).

But no-

"Dinnae try to pin this on me, Harry- naw, that is utter gash, so gonnae stop being such a wean? It's yer ain fault yer a fuckin' alky, no mine!"

-he had not misheard.

Sherlock stared up towards John's bedroom, one hand over his chin. Yes, he had been correct, after all (definitely John)- but he had been unable to conclude until that point that he was on the phone to his sister (hence raised voice, apparent anger). What was escaping him was the reason for John's obvious and drastic accent shift towards something that was distinctly more north-of-the-border.

He considered for a moment the possible reasons for this (disguise? No, he was talking to Harry), but he was finding it difficult to arrive at a plausible explanation for the shift. He frowned in concentration (Watson- Anglo-Scottish surname of some antiquity, possible factor? John- derived from Hebrew [discard, irrelevant]. John H. Watson. Mind palace; Adler, Irene, conversations: sift) "Hamish!" he exclaimed, a little louder than necessary- possibly even loud enough for John to hear, but only if he deigned to stop yelling.

The detective smiled to himself, stroking the curve of his chin with his middle finger. Now this was curious. John was of Scottish descent- he knew that already- but now it seemed to him that his partner was perhaps not so far removed from their Celtic cousins as he had initially implied. His accent was not affected for dramatic flair- he spoke with the obvious dialect and vaguely musical lilt of a native (South East or Central Scotland, not the impenetrable tones of the Highlands and Islands), but it was miles from his everyday accent. This suggested to Sherlock that either one or both parents were Scottish, or that John had spent some time growing up in the North (the former, most likely- the latter had a far larger probability of having been overheard or mentioned in passing). Sherlock was sure he would have catalogued this information had he been party to it- it was Regarding John and therefore Very Important, and he was unlikely to have discarded it.

"Aw, fuckin' wrap up!" he heard from upstairs, shortly accompanied by a telling crash that strongly suggested that his phone had just met an unpleasant end against the wall. There was silence for a moment, and Sherlock cocked his head to one side and waited for John Hamish Watson to make his way downstairs. He smirked to himself as he heard the doctor mutter something along the lines of "That lassie's aff her nut," and then the door opened and he was faced with a somewhat red-faced John standing on the upper landing.

"Whit?" he demanded when he caught sight of Sherlock at the bottom of the stairs, but he coughed and shook his head before continuing. "I meant- what. What do you want?" he concluded, the softer tones of his regular voice quickly replacing the broad-accented anger of just moments ago.

"Oh, nothing of import," Sherlock replied glibly. "I was just shamelessly eavesdropping on your conversation with your sister. Now there's a side of you I wasn't prepared for," he said with a wry smile.

John plodded heavily down the steps to reach his partner, unable to stop the embarrassed grin spreading over his face. He reached the bottom step and buried his reddening face into the taller man's shoulder- wishing that he could have kept that one quirk to himself, and yet simultaneously accepting that attempting to keep secrets from Sherlock Holmes was utterly futile.

"Was it your mother or your father?" asked the detective smugly. John laughed into Sherlock's short collar, shaking his head slightly against the fabric of his suit before pulling back.

"Both, actually. Neither of them had particularly strong accents, but sometimes they would argue and their accents would turn louder and broader than usual… It isn't that unusual; people put more emphasis on their words when they're trying to make a point!" he replied defensively.

"Ah, both- I did suspect both. And you inherited that trait, did you? How fascinating-"

"I'm glad I amuse you."

"-And positively adorable."

This time, it was John's turn to be amused by the other man's word choice. Of all of the many creative and colourful words he had heard escape from between those perfect lips, "adorable" or any of its synonyms had not been regularly featured.

"Yes, John," clarified Sherlock. "Adorable. In fact," he continued- clearing his throat with a short, pointed cough- "I would not be at all adverse to being talked to as such, from time to time. It's really rather exotic."

John wrinkled his eyebrows and looked up at his lover, vaguely puzzled. "Exotic? You consider Scottish regional slang exotic?" he said, barely containing his laughter. Sherlock gave him a meaningful look, and the side of John's mouth twitched into a disbelieving smile. "Sherlock, are you trying to tell me that Scottish accents turn you on?"

Sherlock swallowed hard and clenched his jaw tight- you could almost hear his teeth grinding. He gave a short nod, and then raised his gaze slightly to look up in the direction of John's bedroom. The doctor didn't have to be told twice, and grabbed one of Sherlock's slim hands with his own- pulling him up the stairs rather more urgently than necessary.

"Well, my love," he said, closing the door behind them. "I've got to say- what's for ye won't go by ye."

A/N: This was written due to this prompt on the Sherlock KinkMeme: . ?thread=127969217#t127969217

As a native Scot, I just couldn't resist writing this little crack-y piece. Hope you enjoyed!