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Chapter Text

It took a week of locum work after being invalided for the routine to go from comforting to boring. Three weeks for his limp to get worse. And four weeks for him to consider packing it all in and moving to India.

“Why India?” Mike Stamford asked. John hadn’t seen him in years, literally bumping into him during a lunchtime hobble through the park. He wasn’t exactly paying attention to his surroundings of late.

“I don’t know. It’s not really about India. I just feel wasted here.” John jostled his bad leg into a more comfortable position. “Who wants to go from being a warzone surgeon to diagnosing chickenpox?”

“You miss it?”

John nodded. “Stupid really, isn’t it? I don’t miss the fighting or the violence, but I do miss the excitement, never knowing what the day will bring. Making a difference, you know, literally saving lives.”

“Sounds like you’re at an impasse.”

“I am. I don’t enjoy it anymore. Medicine, I mean. I’m never going to be able to cut anyone open again, and I don’t think I can handle another week of twisted ankles and tonsillitis. But what else can I do? What else could I possibly be qualified for?”

Mike looked thoughtful. “You know what, I might know just the thing.”

***

John wasn’t sure what to think as he was led down a labyrinth of corridors in a warehouse just out of town. With his cane-free hand he pulled the lapels of his jacket tighter to ward off the chill. His defenses were up, but he was unafraid. Surely Mike would not send him into the lair of a serial killer.

Finally, he made it to a sparsely furnished room where a tall and imposing figure stood staring at a map. He waited a moment before interrupting the man.

“Uh, Mr Holmes?”

The man didn’t turn around, simply continued staring at the map like he was unaware of John’s presence.

“Dr Watson, I presume. Decorated war hero, top army surgeon. Or you were until you were caught in that ambush.” He finally spun around to face him and John’s breath caught in his throat. The pinstriped suit hung off his six-foot frame like it was made just for him, in fact, it probably was. He had an air of distinction about him, authoritative yet kind. Sort of. “War is a nasty thing, but inevitable.”

“How did you—“

“I hold a minor position with the British Government. It’s amazing what information one can obtain access to, if one knows where to look.”

John’s heart sank. Maybe Mike and this man didn’t hold the answer after all. “Right, well, I think I’ve had my fill of involvement with the government, so maybe it’s best-“

“Sit down, Dr Watson,” Mr Holmes instructed in a tone John was used to obeying. And like the good soldier he was, he immediately sank into the cushioned seat behind him, all thoughts and protests evading his lips. “While the government takes up most of my time, I do hold interests outside of it.”

“Oh?”

“Mr Stamford tells me you’re good with people.”

“I suppose I am—“

“He also tells me you’re looking for a change. Something a bit more satisfying?” he said, leaning against his desk. John swallowed hard as his blue eyes pierced right through him.

“Well, I—“

Mr Holmes held up a finger to wait a minute while he answered his phone which had started to vibrate.

“I said alive,” Mr Holmes told the person at the other end in the same voice he’d told John to sit. “By all means, but if he is not breathing by the time I get to him it will be you who notifies Downing Street, am I understood? Excellent.”

“So, uh, outside interests?” John said once he’d hung up.

“Tell me, have you heard of The Vibe?”

***

“Wanker alert!” Sally called out from her place behind the till.

Sherlock came rushing out from the aisle he was restocking. “Again? For goodness sake, Anderson, can’t you keep your hand off it for two minutes? We only just managed to get the stain out of the back office couch last week!”

“You were the one who told me to watch Irene Adler’s latest DVD!” Anderson called out from the other side of the store.

“So you could review it for Sally and I! Not so you could rub out years of sexual repression. You have to learn to separate your work from your perversions.”

“Shut up, you two,” Sally interrupted. “I meant the other wanker, our noble benefactor. Mycroft’s car just pulled up outside.”

“Bollocks,” Sherlock said, approaching the window to have a look. “What does he want this time?”

“Looks like he’s got someone with him. Oh, he’s a bit cute, too.”

The bell chimed as the door to the shop opened.

“My dear brother,” Sherlock said as he entered, voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “To what do we owe this unannounced pleasure.”

Mycroft looked Sherlock up and down before turning back to his companion. “Take a look around, Dr Watson. Let me know what you think.”

Sherlock took a minute to catalogue Mycroft’s guest as he walked off around the store, wide eyed like he’d never been in a sex shop before. Army, injured shoulder, inconsistent limp.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked his brother.

“Ask him yourself, you know I’m not at liberty to reveal government information.”

“You’re not at liberty to do most things, but you still do. What is he doing here?”

“He’s looking for a change of vocation. One of the men at my golf club recommended him.”

“You don’t play golf, it’s entirely too physical for you.”

“Who said anything about playing golf?”

“Well if he’s a friend of one of your toff crowd he will be too much of a prude to last here, best just send him on his way now.”

“I think he may surprise you, little brother.”

Sherlock scoffed. “No one surprises me.”

“Of course, nobody could put one past the great observer. Still, as majority owner of this business, I say you give him a go.”

“And as the store manager, I say he won’t last a week.”

“Behave yourself, or else I shall tell Mummy that you really don’t have to be at the convention the night of her birthday.”

Sherlock looked at him, stricken. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me. I like this one, Sherlock. I dare say he might even survive the likes of you.” He stopped speaking as his guest approached them. “Ah, Dr Watson, what do you think?”

“Bit of an eye opener,” he said, and Sherlock grinned knowingly. He wouldn’t last a day.

“How about a week’s trial run? Retail isn’t for everyone, but I think this place could hardly be called boring.”

“Maybe, a trial run might be—“ the doctor trailed off. Sherlock followed his gaze to the young man currently being served by Sally at the cash register. Eighteen, maybe nineteen. Nervous. Virgin. Sexually confused. Obviously still lives at his parents house or else he would have shopped online. “You can’t sell him that.”

Sherlock looked down at the rather large butt-plug on the counter, about to inform the doctor that as a retailer, they could sell him whatever the bloody hell they wished. But he was over at the counter before he could speak.

“Excuse me, mate,” the doctor approached the teen who had frozen up. He looked at the older man with terror in his eyes, like he’d been caught by his own mother. “Have you used anything like this before?”

“Um. No?” the teen squeaked out.

The doctor lowered his voice, his expression changing to one of openness, friendliness. “Look, you get started with something that size, you’re going to do yourself some damage. Trust me, I’m a doctor, I’ve seen plenty of young men like yourself come into the surgery because they’ve slipped on something in the shower, if you know what I mean.” The teen laughed and the doctor joined in, effectively easing the tension. “Do you want to be the next?”

He shook his head.

“Come on, let’s go back and get something a bit more suitable.”

Mycroft smiled smugly when Sherlock followed the twosome with his eyes, seeing the doctor grab a few from the shelves and explain them. The boy now seemed fully relaxed, smiling and asking questions.

When they returned to the counter it was with two much smaller plugs, a bottle of lube, and a copy of “DI Lestrade: Slammed in the Slammer”.

“So remember, don’t rush these things. You have plenty of time to work it all out. Whether you like girls—“

He doesn’t, Sherlock thought to himself.

“—or boys, it doesn’t change who you are, so go with it.”

“Thanks Dr Watson.”

“My pleasure.”

Mycroft faced his brother, smug grin ever present. “So, I trust I can leave you to sort out the appropriate paperwork?”

“Don’t you have a country to invade?” Sherlock snapped.

“That reminds me, I must get my dry cleaning picked up before I go to Germany tonight. Try and not get yourself into any situations while I’m away.”

And without another word, Mycroft was out of the store and back into his car.

“Is he always like that?” The doctor asked.

“An insufferable prat? Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“I don’t know, there’s something about him that’s kind of appealing.” The doctor smiled and Sherlock tried his best not to look horrified. “I’m John, by the way.”

“Dr John Watson, ex-army medic, wounded in Iraq? Afghanistan?”

“Didn’t your brother tell you?”

“My brother didn’t tell me a thing. I merely observed. For example, that boy, obviously homosexual but not quite ready to admit it. Still lives with his parents, otherwise someone that shy and nervous would have bought online and had it delivered. Has younger siblings and cannot access online porn without it being detected, thus you suggesting one of the Lestrade DVDs, a good one for a sexually confused teenager as it contains enough of both men and women for it not to be too confronting, and at the same time enough man on man action for him to come to his own realisation. Something you appreciated when discovering your own bisexuality.”

John stood there with his mouth wide open. “That’s incredible.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

“Right, okay,” Sherlock walked over to the cabinet behind the cash register and pulled out a folder. “So, your availability. What days do you see your psychologist?”

“How do you know I have a psychologist?”

“Wounded army doctor with a psychosomatic limp, of course you have a psychologist.”

John seemed taken aback. “Tuesday. Mornings. Weekly at the moment. How did you know about the limp? It could be real.”

“Could be, but you were clearly shot in the shoulder. Not only that, but it’s inconsistent. It was giving you great pain when you were walking around the store, but when you were helping that young twink out you barely hobbled.”

John shook his head. “Wow. That’s brilliant. A very amazing talent you have there.”

Sherlock regarded him. “You mean that.”

“Of course I do! What kind of response were you expecting?”

“Most people point out which dildo would be best to fuck myself with.”

John’s expression went from shock to absolute eye-crinkly belly laughter in half a second. Sherlock couldn’t help his own smile in response.

“Welcome to The Vibe, Dr Watson.”

Maybe his brother had finally done someone worthwhile for the business after all.

Chapter Text

Of all of the professions John believed his skills as an army doctor could transfer to, Assistant Manager of one London’s most successful and well known sex shops was not one of them.

Yet, six months later, there he was. Stocking shelves, helping customers, learning about visual merchandising, point of sales systems and whatnot. A completely different world to what he was used to (the bullets people spoke of in the store were completely different to the ones in his old line of work) but it was definitely not boring. It was actually fun, in a way.

“John!”

He rolled his eyes at the summons and put down the box of lube he was restocking. Hobbling to the front counter, he saw Sherlock clicking on random buttons on the computer.

“There you are. This infernal point of sale system you made us install insists we have five more Butterfly models in stock but they are nowhere to be found.”

John gave an apologetic smile to the woman Sherlock was serving and walked around the counter to the computer. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock didn’t move an inch. Any personal boundaries that had existed between them evaporated the first time Sherlock heard John describe him as one of his best friends. He had to reach around him to get hold of the mouse, their sides brushing. John caught a whiff of his cologne and tried to subtly catch another.

“See here, they are on shelf G17 in the stock room.”

He looked up to see Sherlock looking down at him, smiling. Of course the smug bastard knew he’d been scenting him like a dog in heat. He cleared his throat. “I’ll just go out back and grab them then, shall I?”

Swiftly, he made his way out to the back room, a feat made so much easier since he ditched that bloody cane. The coolness of the stock room calmed the heat in his cheeks. By god, that man could smell good. He counted out the shelves; C, D, E, F, G—eesus Christ!

“For fucks sake, Anderson!”

Anderson hurriedly pulled up his jeans over his bare arse and turned to face the wall.

“Sherlock told me to try out the new Fleshlight and let him know what it was like!” he protested.

“How many times do we have to… at home, Anderson. He wants you to try it out at home.”

“I’m on my lunch break!”

“Molly hasn’t even come around with sandwiches yet.” John let out an exasperated breath and reached into the shelving unit to retrieve the five objects. “Clean up, sort yourself out, and for goodness sake wash your hands. I want to see you out there restocking the Hen’s Party section in five minutes.”

John shook his head as he walked back towards the counter, ringing through the sale for Sherlock who was suddenly occupied with the notebook he carried around with him everywhere.

“Do me a favour,” John said when she left. “Next time you tell Anderson he can try something out, tell him at the end of his shift.”

“Do you think getting the CCTV cameras in will encourage or deter him?” Sherlock asked, pen poised above the page.

“I really don’t want to think about his exhibitionist streak, thank you very much. What are you writing, anyway? Did that woman give you more fodder for your book?” One night at the pub, Sherlock had confided in him that he was writing a series of short stories, and had been since he and Mycroft had bought the shop. John had to admit, with the way Sherlock’s mind worked, he was curious about the content.

“Not really, her leanings are much too vanilla.” Sherlock dismissed. “I’ve been timing how long it takes between me telling Anderson he’s allowed to try out one of the new items and him actually using it. Seeing if it shortens over time. CCTV will have to be factored into later data, of course, but for now it appears he’s lost any workplace decency he once had.”

“If he had any at all,” John said as he walked to the display to stack the rest of the Butterflies. “Are you doing anything tonight? Fancy going to get a bite at Angelo’s?”

“You don’t have a date with that woman?”

“What woman?”

“The short one with the pixie cut that she thinks is cute but it actually ages her several years.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Emma? We broke up last week.”

Sherlock looked at him, contemplation narrowing his eyes. “I thought as much.”

John shrugged, not really wanting to hear about Sherlock’s brilliant deductions around his love life. He’d rather talk about it like a normal person. “I wasn’t that cut up about it. Bit clingy. Apparently every time she met up with us for a drink I would spend the night completely ignoring her and just talking to you or Sally or Mike, and when I went out with her friends, I was too quiet.”

“You found her friends insufferable.” It wasn’t a question.

“So boring.”

“I know, you texted me about them. Several times. While you were out with them.”

“That was something else I did wrong. Apparently if I liked you more than her so much, I should be going out with you.”

“That offer’s been on the table for a while, John.” Sherlock did his best attempt at a leer.

There would have been a time in John’s past where he would have jumped at the chance to sleep with someone like Sherlock. Tall, lithe, thick dark hair. But if war had taught him anything about himself, it was that he craved companionship, a partnership, an emotional connection. Someone to go home to, maybe have a cuddle on the couch with while watching tele. He had companionship with Sherlock, the unlikely friendship was one of the best John had, but Sherlock was not capable of the other stuff longer than one night, and John was not going to sacrifice their friendship over it.

“Ha-ha. You know, I don’t really fancy being another notch on your bedpost.”

“You would be the most handsome notch there.”

“I’m ignoring this conversation and getting back on the real topic. Do you want to get a bite to eat after work? We can talk about next month’s Sexpo convention.”

“I can’t, I’m interviewing a potential flat mate.”

“Oh?” Sherlock’s last four attempts at acquiring someone to share the rent were fruitless. John wondered what would be wrong with today’s candidate.

“Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind about moving in.”

“Not this again.”

“We’re friends. I have it on good authority that friends occasionally live together.”

“If I wanted to hear my flat mate shagging someone different every other night, I’d go live with my sister.”

“It’s not every other night.”

“It’s often enough."

Sherlock ignored him. “You can barely afford your flat. And besides, you hate it.”

“I don’t hate it.”

“You do. You stay late here doing inventory or visual merchandising. The evenings you’re not doing that you’re on a date or going out for a drink. You avoid going home because you don’t like it there.”

“Have you ever lived with someone you worked with? I did, with a whole battalion. Not as much fun as it sounds.”

“I’m not going to push, but I find you to be one of the few people in the world I can willingly tolerate.” John was trying to work out if that was a compliment or insult when Sherlock added, “and you are one of the few people who seem to take my personality as it is, and not as a personal affront.”

John took a breath. Sherlock was Sherlock, as far as he was concerned. Unique and brilliant and surprisingly caring, once you got past the bluster. But most people did not look beyond that, and it was their loss. It would, however, make finding a suitable flat mate difficult.

“Sherlock—“ John began before being interrupted by a customer enquiry.

“Yes, Sherlock.” The voice had an Irish sing-song lilt that sent a shiver down John’s spine. He didn’t need to face the man to know who he was.

“Jim,” Sherlock said. “What can I help you with today?”

“You said you were going to get more of those ankle restraints in this week.” The tone Jim used when he spoke of such things was enough to make the bile rise to John’s throat.

“You’re in luck, they came in yesterday but they’re still in the stockroom.”

“I’d say I’m in luck.” Jim licked his lips while he looked Sherlock up and down, assessing him, memorising him. “I do enjoy you in those trousers.”

And yes, those trousers were particularly flattering on his friend, but Jim, with his slicked back hair and creepy eyes, should not have been sweeping over him the way he did. John could practically see the cartoon tongue rolling out of his mouth.

He limped from the scene to get the item from the stockroom so Jim could get out of there sooner. And why was it that his limp got worse when his stress and discomfort levels went up? No surprises that it increased with Jim’s presence. It happened every week.

“Here you are,” John said, ringing them up on the register.

“You are a good puppy, aren’t you?” Jim said, the disdain detectable through the sweetness.

“One likes to keep in the good graces of their boss.”

Jim raised his eyebrows, a sure sign John was about to be the recipient of a particularly cutting remark. “That’s not all one would like to keep in their boss, am I right, Doctor?”

John tried his best not to flush while he handed Jim his bag, then stepped to the front of the store to hold the door open for him.

“See you soon, Sherlock,” he sing-songed on his way out.

John returned to the counter, hands on his hips. “He is obsessed with you.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Hardly.”

“He practically undresses you with his eyes every time he comes in.”

“Don’t be crass, John.”

“Me, crass? Did you hear what he said to me?”

“What Jim says to you is none of my business, just as what he says to me is none of yours.”

“I didn’t ask you what you spoke about.”

“No, but you were going to.”

John gave Sherlock the most annoyed glare in his repertoire. Sherlock may have the stronger power of observation, but John was not blind, especially when it came to his friends being hit on by creeps.

“Put away your soldier face, John. I know what I’m doing with Jim. I know how he operates and I know not to give him what he wants.”

“You know that from the ten minutes he spends in here every week, flirting with you?” John asked, but didn’t miss the way Sherlock turned his head away from him, suddenly fixated on customers Sally was helping in the costume section. “You slept with him, didn’t you?”

There was a pause before he responded. “We may know each other in a biblical sense, yes.”

“And what, he’s not satisfied with only one night?”

“He knew at the start that was all that was on offer.”

“Unbelievable. You know how to pick them, don’t you.”

“Because you’ve never made mistakes in that regard? Need I remind you of that wretched woman with the dog who bit you?”

“Buster was territorial.”

“She accused you of biting him first!”

“Okay, so we’ve both made mistakes. At least mine aren’t lingering in the doorway every week.”

“I can deal with it. I am dealing with it. It’s been over a year now and he still doesn’t know my number or where I live, it’s fine.”

John sighed and ran a tired hand down his face. “I hope he was a good shag, at least.”

“Memorable. Don’t know I’d rate it as good.”

“You’ve got to be more careful, Sherlock.”

“I’ve spent 34 years looking after myself successfully.”

“That may be, but now you have someone in your every day life who gets concerned for your safety. I kind of like you, you know?”

Sherlock smirked. “And yet you won’t agree to live with me or sleep with me. You’re a study in contradictions, Doctor Watson.”

“Ugh, I give up.” John went back to his box of lube, grateful that Sherlock didn’t draw attention to the fact that his limp was suddenly worse.

***

“Late one last night, Boss?” Sally asked Sherlock as soon as he walked in. By god that woman’s voice was grating at the best of times, let alone when he’d only managed three hours sleep.

“Your powers of deduction are improving,” Sherlock noted, propping his sunglasses up on top of his head. “What gave it away? The sunglasses, the shuffling of my feet, or the giant coffee in my hand?”

“Hey, it’s not Sally’s fault you’re a grumpy bastard,” John’s voice came at him from the other side of the shop. “Leave her be before she trips you up while you’re still holding that coffee?”

Sherlock stormed off toward the office to dump his things and maybe hide out for the morning processing the stack of invoices in his in-tray. Stupid John and his stupid intriguing face. This was all his fault, after all. If only he’d finally succumb to moving in with him he would never have to meet with random people all the time in order to halve his rent.

“So, how did potential flat mate number eight go?” John asked, leaning against the doorjamb to the office. Sherlock shrugged his coat off and pulled the scarf from his neck. John’s eyes went wide. “Pretty well, from the looks of it.”

Sherlock’s hand flew to his neck. Damn, he’d forgotten the previous night’s potential tenant was a biter.

“Actually, not very well at all.”

“Your lack of sleep and evidence on your neck would indicate otherwise.”

Sherlock sighed as he took a seat and started shuffling through papers, stapling the right ones to each other. “It would never have worked. He asked if Speedy’s did a decent expresso.”

“So?”

“Expresso, John. I cannot tolerate living with somebody so incompetent with the English language.”

“Not to mention the awkwardness with all the sex.” John’s voice contained a hint of bitterness, and really, it was uncalled for. John had been given opportunity on various occasions to be the one marking up Sherlock’s neck, and refused each time. Although maybe he was bitter at the way he’d treated Sally when he’d walked in. Yes, that was much more likely. The best way to rectify that would be to left alone until the haze passed and he felt more human. Surely John knew that?

“Quite. Now if you’ll just let me get to the paperwork in peace, I won’t inflict my grumpy bastard on you or any other—ouch! Jesus Christ!”

Sherlock looked down to his bleeding finger at the same time as John rushed over to take a look.

“Careful,” John said, gripping his wrist. The staple had imbedded itself into his pointer finger, and it would likely cause some damage getting it out.

“Come on, you.” John dragged him out of the chair and toward the employee bathroom, red droplets running down Sherlock’s wrist onto the concrete below. “Anyone would think I’d finally murdered you.”

“Quick, call Lestrade!” Sherlock mocked. John seemed to have a thing for the pornographic fake inspector.

“Not enough blood loss to affect your arsehole streak, I see. Get your finger under the warm water while I get the first aid kit.”

Sherlock grit his teeth as the water hit, stinging at the initial contact until it became a dull throb. Eventually, John’s gloved hand pulled Sherlock’s out of the water, and he used his thumb and some tweezers to work at the staple.

“Careful!” Sherlock hissed as the staple began to pull at his skin.

John looked up at him, exasperation written all over his face. “I pulled bullets out of soldiers, I think I’m capable of getting a staple out of your finger without you dying as a result.”

Sherlock just huffed and grit his teeth as John carefully worked at the staple, eventually prising it out from its hold.

“How did you get it to curl closed under your skin? Nevermind, get it back under the water, wash it out,” John instructed while he cut up a bit of gauze. He turned the tap off, patted down Sherlock’s hand, and started applying ointment to the wound.

“What’s the verdict?”

“You’ll live. Might just bleed and throb for a while.”

He applied the gauze and tape with expert precision, not too tight, then dropped a kiss to his fingertip.

“All better?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What am I? An eight year old getting his scrapes bandaged by Mummy?”

“You act like it sometimes,” John said as he packed up the first aid kit. “Seriously, Sherlock, this is what sleep deprivation does to you. Get a good night’s rest tonight. You’ll need it before Sexpo next week.”

“Yes, Doctor Watson.”

John cuffed him over the back of the head. “I’ll Doctor Watson you.”

It was an inauspicious start to the day, but on the upside, it could hardly get much worse. Right?

***

“Food alert!” Sally called out a little after noon.

Like vultures on a rotting carcass, the team gathered around the basket of goodies Molly was providing that day. Actually, they were worse than vultures. At least vultures had the sense to hover before feasting. It was Sherlock’s own fault, really, but he’d deducted long ago that it was more cost effective to provide lunch himself than have his staff wonder off for hours on end in search of their own.

Unlike the others who appeared to be breaking land-speed records, Sherlock strolled to the counter to collect his. He wasn’t going to hurry. The only reason he ate lunch most days was because of Sally’s not-so-gentle nagging and John’s disapproving look if he didn’t.

“I heard about your little accident this morning,” Molly called out as Sherlock approached, pointing at his finger. “So I put in a little treat; strawberry and lemon curd muffins.”

“Mine!” Sherlock exclaimed, running the remaining ten metres and pouncing on the basket. “Lemon curd and strawberry is my favourite combination.”

“I know.” Molly grinned, blush staining her cheeks. She was an odd girl. Been delivering their food for almost two years and still had the shyness of a kindergartener leaving mummy’s side for the first time.

“My day is suddenly a lot brighter. Thank you, Molly.”

The door to the store opened.

“Hello, everybody. Have I made it in time for lunch?”

“And suddenly it’s dull and grey again. Seriously, could today be any more tedious?” Sherlock turned to his brother who had just walked through the door. “If we let you eat our lunch there wouldn’t be anything left for the rest of us.”

“Yes, weight jokes, very amusing.”

“What are you doing here? You do know that it’s polite to announce when you’re coming to visit.”

“I’ll conform to the politeness imposed by society when you do. Besides, I was invited.”

“By whom?”

John cleared his throat from behind him. Oh, of course it was John. He shot a glare his way.

“I, uh, told him he should come over when he’s free. Check out the new security cameras.”

“Do you have time now, John?” Mycroft propped his umbrella against the counter.

“Of course,” he said, wrapping the remainder of his sandwich and tucking it behind the desk.

Sherlock followed them with his eyes as John showed Mycroft the new fittings, all of the visible and hidden cameras throughout the store, a light pink dusting his cheeks as he nodded at what Mycroft was saying.

“It know it’s hard,” Molly said. Judging by the expression on John’s face Sherlock could only surmise that it was, indeed, well on the way to getting hard. Bloody Mycroft. “I mean, to see the guy you like fancy someone else.”

Sherlock ripped his gaze from them to look at Molly, considering.

“Oh, he doesn’t fancy Mycroft.”

“He doesn’t?”

“No. John is attracted to those in authority, those with power, but they are not the sort of people he would pursue a relationship with.”

“No?”

“John likes to be an equal in his partnerships. And I have it on good authority that he is not after a one night stand.”

“He told you that?”

“In so many words, yes.” Sherlock attempted to mask the disappointment in his voice.

“You, uh—“

“Yes, and have been rebuked about it. I don’t know why. He’s obviously missing male company, I could provide that.”

“Is it because of your friendship?” Molly’s tone seemed to indicate that would be a forgone conclusion, which was ridiculous.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Of course it’s relevant,” Molly said, lowering her voice. “Sex changes things. And John is someone who forms emotional attachments. He probably would only sleep with a friend he would pursue a relationship with.”

Sherlock stole another look at John, considering Molly’s words. “Go on.”

“He likes you, obviously. He probably doesn’t want to risk ruining your friendship.”

“But it wouldn’t be ruined, it would be exactly the same as before.”

“Maybe for him it wouldn’t.”

Sherlock didn’t reply to that, just replayed that conversation in his mind, turning over Molly’s words and John’s actions where that topic was concerned.

Not long after Molly left, Mycroft followed suit, mentioning something about a conference call with a member of royalty, no doubt for John’s benefit. Something else to remind him of the power he holds.

“The staff toilets are the only place the CCTV cameras don’t go, remember.” Sherlock told John when he came back for his sandwich, shooting a glance down at his crotch.

“Ha ha. You’re a comedian. Why is it so hard for you to realise that some people may find your brother attractive?”

“Because it’s absurd. Anyway, you aren’t attracted to him.”

“Oh, I’m not now, am I? Please, tell me all about how you deduced this.”

“You’re attracted to power, positions of authority, obviously. Your favouring of DI Lestrade in pornography shows that. Mycroft has some element of power that you respond to, but this is heightened by the fact that you are currently craving the company of another male.”

“Which is why I’ve dated two different girls over the past three weeks.”

“That may be so, but somebody used their staff discount to purchase a vibrating colt and DI Lestrade: Spread ‘Em, which isn’t Sally’s scene and Anderson would rather be caught with his pants down in Molly’s café than watching gay pornography.”

“Oh.” That delightful blush was back staining John’s cheeks.

“I can offer a solution to your current craving,” Sherlock started. “In fact, I’d be more than happy to indulge you.”

“Sherlock—“

He held his hand up. “However, Molly shed some light on how sex can potentially ruin friendships, and although I’d like to think ours would survive, I’m flattered by your desire to preserve it.”

“I’ve told you, Sherlock, you’re my best friend. If you were just some guy I met in a pub, you would have been in my bed months ago.”

“I appreciate the flattery, but there’s no need. I understand, John. I may not entirely agree with it, but I respect your viewpoint.”

John had a confused look on his face. “Right. Uh, thanks. I guess.”

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock had no idea how to tell his libido of this recent development. He’d long since learned that his superior intellect does not trump his more base desires. Time to change the subject. “Now, I believe you wanted to finalise the stock we’ll be taking to Sexpo?”

 

COMING UP NEXT: The Vibe has a stall at Sexpo, Jim Moriarty returns to flirt more with Sherlock, and Irene Adler arrives in the flesh. A lot of flesh.

Chapter Text

Sherlock was right, as per usual. John was craving male company. It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch. A Sherlock-sized itch, more to the point. One that John was only vaguely aware existed before Sherlock stopped flirting with him so obviously. It was as if that bit of harmless flirtation was enough to sustain the part of him that enjoyed Sherlock’s attentions.

He did miss the flirting. Just a little bit.

But at the end of the day a one-night stand with his best friend was not what John was after, no matter how satisfying it might be. And while that was all that was on offer, he would simply stick to his string of unsuccessful dates.

Besides, Sherlock really was the best friend that John had. He was interesting, enigmatic, and lacked a certain self-awareness that was almost endearing. To John, anyway. He was proud to call him a friend, and a warm feeling pooled in his stomach when he saw others appreciate his talents of observation instead of him being maligned for them.

At Sexpo, the happiest adult exhibition on earth with 200 retailers and a centre stage holding hourly acts and demonstrations, Sherlock seemed to be in his absolute element. The buzz around the hall was electric, many people walking through and all of them happy and curious and willing to take advice, even of the abrupt and sometimes rude Holmesian variety.

“No, no, no. You don’t want those.” Sherlock marched over to a woman and her friend who had picked up a pair of padded handcuffs. He had to speak up over the grunts and groans coming from the centre stage speakers for the Best Fake Orgasm competition.

“I don’t?” she asked. The smirk on her face held a hint of skepticism, but she was willing to hear him out all the same.

“No, it won’t solve your problem. It will still rub against your wrist like this.” Sherlock grabbed the woman’s arm, drawing her attention to the faint red marks. “Obviously, your husband enjoys it, and you like to please him. But if you don’t get the right apparatus you’ll find yourself cursing him and yourself for agreeing to it in the first place.”

In a normal situation, sometimes even at The Vibe, the person would have either slapped John’s best friend, or walked away in a huff. Instead, the customer raised her eyebrows at her friend and gave a wry smile while Sherlock took a strip of material out of a box.

“Now this is what you need for those delicate wrists of yours. Give them to me.” Sherlock made a double loop with the long length of cloth over the woman’s offered wrists. Sherlock held onto the other end. “Okay, now pull.”

John saw the pleased look on the woman’s face as she yanked her hands away from Sherlock.

“It doesn’t rub at all,” she said, giving him a kind grin that made even John feel fuzzy.

She and her friend ended up buying two each and thanked Sherlock profusely as he handed them their bags. John often wished the world could see Sherlock through his eyes and appreciate what a unique person he was, and to see it happen filled him with a sense of pride on Sherlock’s behalf.

“We’re going through those Rabbits,” John told him in a break between customers. “We brought ten along and in two hours we’ve sold eight.”

“Interesting.” Sherlock took his mobile from his pocket and punched out a series of buttons. “Yes, as suspected, it was on last night.”

“What was?”

“The Rabbit episode of that terrible show about the four horrible women in New York.”

“Sex and the City?”

“That one, yes. Whenever that particular episode airs we seem to sell out of Rabbits within a week. Heaven knows why, when there’s much better female vibrators on the market.”

“Because you’re the expert on female pleasure?” John raised an eyebrow.

“One does not need a vagina to conduct research.”

“But one usually at least needs to know what works in that region.”

“I forgot I was dealing with a modern day Don Juan. Please, John, tell me all about it so I may learn enough to be worthy of looking up reviews on the internet!”

“I’m not getting into an argument with you about female genitalia,” John said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll call the store and get someone to bring some more over.”

“How many were there in the storeroom back at the office when you did that pointless stocktake the other night?”

“It wasn’t pointless.” John huffed. Sherlock was still using every opportunity he could to coax John into moving in with him. Bringing his attention to the amount of unpaid overtime he did was one strategy. “And about 70, from memory.”

“Get Sally to bring 30 of them here, and the rest should be put on the display at the front of the store.”

“Sally? You want to leave Anderson as the most senior person at the store to look after the weekend casuals?”

“You’d rather we bring Anderson here? To this exhibition where Miss Nude Canada is about to grace centre stage?”

John thought he probably deserved the look of scorn he was getting.

“I’ll call Sally.”

“And get her to bring some more penis pasta and nipple gummies, too.”

***

It was a wide variety of people who showed up to the Sexpo weekend, and John had a feeling that every single one of them came to their stand. It was great for business, but neither of them had had the chance to have a look around themselves. John was hoping to scope out some new merchandise and meet a few other retailers prior to the networking drinks that would be held at the exhibition’s close.

“Who are you texting?” he asked Sherlock during one of their brief respites.

“Molly. All this standing around and talking is making me hungry.”

“You are not getting Molly to bring you lunch.”

“Why not? She would do it.”

“I know she would, which is why you can’t. You are not to take advantage of that poor girl’s crush on you.”

“I never asked her to have a crush on me. Besides, it’s no longer a crush, merely a fixation. I represent the string of men she feels has rejected her.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to take advantage of it.”

“You don’t seem to mind Mycroft taking advantage of your admiration.”

“Admiration, yes, not a crush. And that’s different. Everything he asks me to do is around the store and actually forms part of my job.”

“I’ll get her to bring one of those caramel slices you like?”

“Sherlock, no. Look, there seems to be a lull. Go to the food hall at the back and get something from there. And get me a salad sandwich. I’ll look after things here.” He noted the tired look around Sherlock’s eyes and took pity on him. “Go on. You’re not usually around people for this long and you probably need some down time, right? Sally will be here soon with the stock. If it’s busy, I’ll just get her to help.”

“You can be surprisingly insightful at times,” Sherlock said, patting his pocket to ensure his wallet was in there. “I’ll make an observer out of you yet.”

“Thank you. I think. Now go before it gets busy again.”

Luckily the slight lull in trade did continue, so John spent his time fixing up the stock and speaking to the occasional customer. It had been a good day thus far, they’d already made their daily target in sales and the atmosphere from the crowd was contagious.

“Look at that, the puppy is dutifully holding the fort so the boss can have a break. How pathetic.”

John’s shoulders immediately stiffened at the Irish accent, his good mood suddenly soured. He turned to face none other than Jim Moriarty. He was wearing dark jeans and a tight t-shirt, hair slicked back and looking as creepy as ever. What did Sherlock ever see in him?

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“It’s a public exhibition, I don’t believe there is a restriction on entry for the over 18s. Besides, my sister is running a fudge stall and could use my assistance.”

“How convenient for you. Well I don’t think we have any merchandise here you don’t already own, and Sherlock is too busy for your usual attentions.” It was going to be a struggle to keep Jim away from Sherlock in a confined space like this, but John would try with all his might. This guy was a borderline stalker and the less time he spent around Sherlock the better for all of them.

“Oh Dr Watson, no need to be jealous. This isn’t a competition, I think we all know who he likes best. Well, the one he’s allowed intimate knowledge of himself, anyway. No matter how many nights good soldiers stay back after work to please their masters.”

He could feel the heat rise to his face and his jaw clench with the insinuation. The thought of this man’s hands on Sherlock made him feel physically ill and somewhat possessive.

John tried to school his features to be that of nonchalance, but he knew Jim could see right through him.

“Well, I’d love to stay and chat,” he said, smirk evident on his creepy little face, “but you seem busy. Tell Sherlock I said hello.”

As soon as he’d gone, John hobbled to the other side of the stand, keen to get as far away from Jim as possible. In these situations, he found himself longing for his discarded cane, even if it was just to bash Jim over the back of the head with.

***

“Would you be right if I took a break in a few minutes?” John asked, trying to hold back the eagerness in his voice. He saw Sherlock glance at his watch.

“Four o’clock? The day’s nearly over.” He paused. “Oh, that’s where everyone has disappeared to. Irene Adler performs now, doesn’t she?”

“Centre stage for a half hour demonstration.”

“You surprise me, John. The dominatrix scene is not usually your thing.”

“It isn’t at all, but she’s a bit of an icon, isn’t she? I wouldn’t mind seeing her in action.”

“Fine, go.” Sherlock waved him off. “I’m sure I can handle things here for the fifteen minutes before you get bored.”

“Are you sure? You know your greatest admirer is here too, don’t you?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “I had the pleasure of bumping into him before. The man is a terrible actor, feigning his surprise at seeing me. I can handle him. Go see The Woman.”

John felt a bit giddy as he took a seat in the back row of centre stage. There was a sea of people waiting and the applause and catcalls almost drowned out the announcement.

“…and put your hands together for the delectable, dangerous diva, Irene Adler!”

In real life, Irene Adler was tiny, but what she lacked in stature she more than made up for in presence. She commanded the audience the second her black stiletto heels touched the stage. She was more alluring in the flesh than she was in any of her DVDs. The black and red corset hugged her torso and created curves, black hot pants accentuating her more than acceptable rear asset, black fishnets elongating her legs. John felt a wave of heat go through him just looking at her.

Irene was enigmatic and incredibly sexy. The control and confidence she displayed using her usual repertoire of apparatus showed how much in a league of her own she actually was. There were doms all over England who would kill to have an iota of her charisma. Irene Adler was a professional, the best in the business, and John could imagine that if it were his kink, he’d be making a quick stop off at the loo on his way back to their stall. But as it was, he found himself looking at his watch after ten minutes of the routine.

“We should get her to launch her new DVD at our store,” John suggested when he returned. “She’d be a big draw. Sign some covers and posters, maybe give away a session with her. One entry for every DVD bought from us?”

“You want to deal with that kind of audience in our store?” Sherlock looked at him as if her fans didn’t show up to the store every day to keep them in business.

“It would just be for a day. A few hours. The sales would be extraordinary. We should try and speak to her agent.”

“The Woman herself is here, why not just speak to her?”

“Because there are rules with these people. You go through their agents so you don’t bother them.” Besides, he was somewhat intimidated by Irene Adler, and the thought of approaching her directly gave him a touch of anxiety.

“What an inefficient use of time.”

“That may be so but you need to play by the rules in this business.”

“Rules are nothing but useless obstacles. Five minutes with her and we’d have a deal done.”

John rubbed his fingertips at his temples. It had been a good day, but it had been a long day, and he knew Sherlock was being deliberately contrary. He would get that way sometimes after spending excessive time around other people.

“You will do no negotiating. If I can track down her agent, I will speak to them. Five minutes with you and they would probably pull distribution from us.”

It wasn’t long before the doors shut on the exhibition for the first day. One more to go, then John could put his tired feet up. He was glad this didn’t happen every weekend, but it was a nice change from the confines of the store.

“We did good, today,” John said, scrolling through some of their point of sales screens on the iPad. “Thirty percent up on projected.”

“Good, that would be the appearance fee for Ms Adler,” Sherlock said as he finished tidying up some of the displays in readiness for the next day.

“You really think she’d say yes to a DVD signing?”

“I know she would. The Woman is not one to shy away from publicity. She’d appear at the opening of an envelope if there was a guarantee her drooling followers would be there to lay down at her feet.”

A female voice came from behind them. “Really, Mr Holmes? That’s the best you could come up with? You’re slipping since I saw you last.”

John’s jaw dropped. That was. Oh my. It was. Irene Adler. Live. Right in front of him. Literally a foot away.

“Tell me which part of it isn’t true and I shall come up with something else,” Sherlock said, and didn’t he know that he was insulting Irene Adler? The Irene Adler? She looked different out of her costume, just in jeans and a blazer, her hair in loose curls rather than a French twist. But it was still undeniably Irene Adler. Oh God. It was Irene Adler and Sherlock was going to ruin everything just by being himself. If it was anyone other than the woman he wanted to try and get to their store John would probably find it amusing, but in this case--

John’s internal monologue never usually rambled that much, but he was quite star struck. In fact, the only thing that derailed it was the sound of laughter coming from Irene Adler’s mouth. Irene Adler was laughing at Sherlock Holmes?

“No, you are quite right. I do enjoy the attention. I just thought you’d be a little nicer to me if you wanted your present.”

Now John was confused. His head darted between the two of them like he was watching a tennis match. He shook his head to clear it.

“Wait, you two know each other?”

John’s voice seemed to snap Sherlock out of his staring competition with their guest.

“Sorry, allow me to introduce you. Irene, this is Dr John Watson, a manager at my store. John, this is Irene, someone who latched onto me during University and I haven’t been able to shake off since.”

John wiped his palm on his trousers before offering it to Irene. “I’m a big fan.”

“Hmm,” she said, looking him up and down. “You’re not, really. You’re in awe of me, respect what I do. Maybe a little intimidated. But you’re not into what I do for a living.”

John swallowed. Great, it was just like dealing with a female Sherlock. Lord, those two at the same University. It’s a wonder London didn’t burn down.

“Enough about John. I believe you said something about a present?” Sherlock said. Irene reached into her back pocket.

“You know the rules. Close your eyes,” she instructed, taking out a strip of fabric and tying it around Sherlock’s head, over his eyes. John saw Sherlock’s breath hitch. He found himself also short of breath not a second later.

For all that John wasn’t into bondage, he was into blindfolds, and Sherlock looked exquisite in one. He could almost see that brilliant brain turning, heightening his other senses to compensate for losing his vision.

And God, John could picture it now. Sherlock, naked except for the blindfold. Standing in the centre of a room, sensing movement through vibrations on the floor or breath against his skin. Waiting, anticipating which direction John would come from. Light licks to his cock? Wet breath against the head of his dick? Feather-light touches against his nipples?

Or maybe Sherlock would be laying on his bed, back against the mattress, John rubbing his arse along his dick, getting him hard, ready. Then shuffling up towards his face on his knees, Sherlock opening his mouth in anticipation of John putting it to good use…

He swallowed past the dry lump in his throat and tried to concentrate on the scene in front on him. Irene Adler tying a bow around the back of Sherlock’s head, looking like she’d done this before, running her fingertips over it to feel it over his skin.

“…from the finest Japanese silk,” she was saying.

“I believe this one will be my favourite. It feels delicious.”

“It looks delicious, doesn’t it, John?” Irene gave him a knowing look, and John found it difficult to force the words from his throat.

“Um. Ah,” he started, he could feel his body going both cold then hot. He had no idea what was going on anymore. “So are you two--? I mean, have you ever been--? You know?”

“Lovers?” Irene asked, then both she and Sherlock completely cracked up with laughter. “Sherlock and I are completely incompatible with our sexual preferences.”

“Not to mention neither of us possessing the right genitalia for the other.”

“Right,” John breathed out. “So you’re—“

“A lesbian? Yes, most certainly. No need to worry about me stealing your man.”

Sherlock pulled off the blindfold and wrapped it around his fingers, feeling the texture. “Oh no, John and I are just friends, aren’t we?“

John’s gaze rose from watching Sherlock’s slender fingers twist around the material to look him in the eye. This was the first time since John’s known him that Sherlock hadn’t tried to turn that assumption into a come on or a flirt.

“Best friends,” John agreed, a good reminder to his libido of exactly why that particular craving would not be sated.

“Oh? From your emails I thought—?“

Sherlock cut her off. “You’d be wrong.”

“Oh. Okay. Well I’m ready to leave this den of depravity. Dinner?”

“For once, I am going to take you up on that offer. John made me buy the most hideous pork sandwich today. It was from a food court, Irene.”

“Oh no. Not a food court?” Irene mocked. “John, would you like to join us?”

“Perhaps we could convince The Woman of your idea to hold her DVD launch at The Vibe?”

“Oh no. I am not talking work at dinner. Besides, any of those requests need to go through my agent.”

“See!” John said, smug at finally getting something over Sherlock for once. “I told you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Congratulations, I’ll buy you a trophy tomorrow. Are you coming or not?”

John looked at the two of them. They seemed relaxed and comfortable in each other’s presence, like two peas in a pod. Probably a ton in common and much to catch up on, not to mention being an absolutely striking couple together. He really didn’t want to be a third wheel. Besides, from the second he’d seen that blindfold across Sherlock’s eyes John knew the only plans he’d have for the night would involve a Lestrade DVD and his vibrating dildo.

“Thank you anyway, but I have plans tonight.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but didn’t question him.

When John left that evening, his leg was not the only thing that was slightly stiff.

Chapter Text

As much as he generally didn’t dislike the crowd that gathered at Sexpo, they tended to be more interesting than the general public, Sherlock would have happily murdered every single person in London if it meant he didn’t have to work that day.

“You decided to come in, then?” John asked, glancing at his watch. So he was 30 minutes late, hardly worthy of such scorn. “You and Irene have a good night?”

“It was pleasant.” Sherlock cringed at the gravelly sound of his own voice. Everything felt like an effort that morning.

“A little too pleasant, by the looks of it.”

“You’re quite right, John. That one glass of wine I had with dinner went straight to my head. Quick, book me into a rehab centre before I sober up completely.”

John ignored him. “Well you’re either extremely hung over or you and your friend sorted out your sexual incompatibilities.”

Sherlock sighed. Why was John being so insufferable? True, it wasn’t often that Sherlock was under the weather, but the disdain rolling off his supposed best friend could be cut with a knife. Besides, what business of John’s was it who he slept with. John had made it abundantly clear that he would not like that role, and Sherlock had been doing everything in his power to control his thoughts and words around him to maintain their friendship. What else did he want from him?

“Even I have been known to fall unwell on occasion, not that it’s any of your business.”

“You’re my friend, of course it’s my business. Also, you were supposed to be here an hour ago so we could look at the other stalls before opening.”

Oh, so that was why John was in a strop. For someone incredibly patient and kind, John hated being kept waiting.

“So what did you find? The next best seller?”

“How do you know I even went looking?”

“You’re annoyed at me for being late and you’re jiggling your good leg like you’re impatient. You obviously have something to show me, so stop being insufferable and just get the damned thing.”

“I’m going to forgive that tone because you do actually look pale this morning.” John reached for a crate under one of their tables and Sherlock took a moment to appreciate the way his jeans pulled against his bum while he bent over. It was almost enough to make Sherlock feel better. John Watson’s arse; curing the flu since 2012.

Sherlock quickly schooled his features as John turned around. It was difficult to mask his ogling, but he’d promised John he would step back from the flirting and suggestions. If only his desire to rip John’s clothes off and lick every inch of him abated with it.

“Here it is.”

John presented him with a vibrator.

“Is this some sort of joke about what I can do with it? How juvenile. I was late for one day—“

“No, it’s something I think we should look into.”

The vibrator was slightly smaller and thinner than their usual fare. There was absolutely nothing to indicate a resemblance to the male genitalia, especially with the swirls of colour all over it.

“Market?”

“Females, 18-plus, new to sex toys and sex in general. Sarah should be along shortly and she’ll be able to tell you much better than me.”

“Sarah?”

“Here she is now.” Sherlock watched as John greeted the woman. Medium height, chestnut hair, slender, health conscious, pretty much exactly John’s type. “Sherlock, this is Dr Sarah Sawyer.”

No, no, no. This would not do. John’s previous dates had been okay. They’d been safe, with their dull conversations and obsessive undertones. But this woman embodied not only everything John tended to look for in a partner, but was a Doctor as well. And possibly a good talker if this was anything to go by. Sherlock thought he should probably be listening, but instead he was focused on the smile on John’s face, his lightened eyes.

“— specialise in gynaecology and sexual health and see so many young women intimidated by sex, or sleeping with someone because they are curious. So I’ve gotten this manufactured to help with that.”

“Vibrators are nothing new, they’ve been around for decades.” Sherlock pointedly did not look at John who was no doubt casting a warning look at him.

Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Yes, but they are generally intimidating to those with no experience. This is smaller, fun, looks nothing like a penis, and quite frankly, the fact that I’ve sold more than 80 of them just yesterday proves that there is a market for them.”

“We currently stock more than 70 different lines of vibrators and dildos, I’m not sure there would be room for this one. We shall have to get back to you. I’m sure John has given you his card.”

Sherlock turned around and pretended to fix up some stock so he wouldn’t have to see the disappointed looks on both of their faces. He heard John mention something to her about him being unwell.

“It’s a great product and you know it. No need to be so rude about it,” John said when she left to return to her own stall.

It was true, the product did seem to fill a gap in their current inventory and felt to be made of decent robust material.

Sherlock had never denied being childish when he didn’t get what he wanted.

“I’ll think about it.”

That was as far as the conversation got before the exhibition doors officially opened to the public for the day. He quickly popped a Rennie and put on his best and least terrifying fake smile. He just had to get through the next eight hours and then he could ignore the world. Doctors Watson and Sawyer included.

***

"Molly! What are you doing here?" John asked as she approached their stall. He took one look at the wicker basket in her hand. "Sherlock!"

"I texted her." At John's look, Sherlock visibly bristled. "I'm not feeling well and I could not possibly have lunch at that food court again."

"I don't mind!" Molly chipped in.

"I know you don't mind, which is precisely why it was rude of Sherlock to ask you. It's your day off!"

"I was thinking of coming down anyway."

"Really?" John said. Molly came to their store each weekday with lunch and could barely refrain from blushing. John could not imagine her walking through a whole exhibition of it.

"Thought I'd see what the fuss is about?" Molly sat the basket down on an available space. "Anyway, I've bought you chicken soup, Sherlock. Just the broth, some vegetables and a little bit of ginger."

"You're a godsend, Ms Hooper." John could see the heat rise to Molly's cheeks as Sherlock grabbed the Tupperware container of steaming soup and inhaled its contents. "If this doesn't make me feel better then nothing will."

She turned to John. "And I brought you a roast lamb sandwich and a bit of that caramel slice you seem to like."

John shot a look at Sherlock. "Okay, you're forgiven. But you're paying Molly for her time today."

"Maybe she could help out with a bit of market research while she's here." Sherlock put down the soup and grabbed the vibrator from behind the table. "What do you think of this?"

"Oh!" Molly's blush spread down to the neck of her twin-set. "It's quite different to your usual, isn't it."

"See, I told you it was rubbish. You cannot use your position at the store to get dates." Sherlock said to John.

"I'm not abusing my position! It's a good product with a market we don't currently cater to."

"Tell him it's a terrible idea and no woman would buy it!" Sherlock told Molly.

Molly hesitated, eyes darting between the two of them. "Actually, when I was 18 I would have appreciated something like this being available. Not as scary as the other ones."

John tried not to look too smug in victory, but couldn't help the smile spread across his face at Sherlock's scowl.

"Fine. Tell your girlfriend we'll take 50 of them and see how they sell."

"She's not my girlfriend."

"Oh please, large smiles, pink cheeks, dilated pupils."

"We'll talk to her about them tonight. Drinks after the exhibition closes, remember?"

Sherlock groaned. "Do I have to attend?"

"Yes. It’s a good networking opportunity."

“I don’t need networking opportunities,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, well once upon a time, according to you, you didn’t need me as your assistant manager either, and look how that turned out.”

“Yes, I’d be lost without you.” It was said with Sherlock’s usual snark, but John could detect the faint traces of sincerity beneath them. It was a skill he’d had to master after months of being his friend and employee.

He ruffled Sherlock’s hair, partly out of affection and partly because he knew it pissed him off.

“Eat your soup.”

***

An hour and a half left of the wretched weekend until Sherlock was home free. As his stomach made another rather unfortunate lurching sound, he wondered if calling in a bomb threat could be traced back to him. Probably, if Mycroft got wind of it. Bloody Mycroft.

“Look at that, it is possible for the puppy to go out on his own after all.”

Sherlock inwardly shuddered at the voice and wished he had have taken out the restraining order when Mycroft offered to get him one last year.

“Leave it be, Jim. I am in no mood for your games today.”

“I’m only here because I care. You’re obviously unwell and your most loyal guard dog is off leaving you to fend for yourself.”

“He’s gone to the loo, he’s hardly abandoned me.”

“Yes, the bathroom. And on the way there, isn’t there a certain stall from a rather lovely female doctor he could call in on?”

Sherlock’s lips thinned. “It is hardly my business.”

“Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. I do hate to see you like this. Reduced to a mass of skin and bone and pining.” Jim took a step closer and Sherlock felt his skin crawl. Whatever did he see in this man? “I could help you. We could be brilliant together. Our minds combined, we’d be unstoppable.”

Which was why Sherlock tolerated him in the first place. There was no denying that the level of Jim’s intelligence rivaled Sherlock’s own, and there was something comforting about staying on his good side, keeping him close, and letting John play the bad guy to keep him away. But there was a reason Sherlock enlisted his brother’s help in ensuring there was no records of his name attached to an address or mobile number, and it was moments like this that seemed to justify the paranoia.

“What do you say?” Jim continued. “As soon as this day is over, I’ll take you home, look after you? Way more competently than any doctor of your acquaintance.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Sherlock turned to find John, cool blue eyes steely. “Doesn’t your sister need help with the end of day trade?”

Jim looked at John with a contempt Sherlock usually reserved for his more annoying relatives. “Your guard dog has returned. Let’s have a drink after this is all done.”

Sherlock could practically feel the vibrations coming off of John.

“I’m gone five minutes and he swoops in. Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay,” Sherlock snapped. “I told you I have the situation in hand.”

John studied his face for a moment. From his expression he was assessing him from a doctors point of view. He reached out and touched a hand to Sherlock’s forehead.

“Get away.”

“You really are unwell, aren’t you? Not just trying to get out of the networking event tonight.”

“I’ve been telling you that all day.”

“You’re warm. Have you taken anything?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Do you need to go home? I can call Anderson and have him come over early?”

“It’s a little over an hour, surely I have enough control over my body to last 60 bloody minutes.”

John held his hands up. “Fine. Your call.”

Sherlock stalked over to the back of their stall and started packing half of the leftover stock into crates. The sooner the end of the day came, the sooner he could wallow on the couch in his dressing gown. Maybe Mrs Hudson might take pity and bring him up some tea. Peppermint or ginger. Until his stomach calmed down. Then maybe some Earl Grey.

Besides, if John’s idea of networking consisted of flirting with Doctor Sawyer then he hardly needed Sherlock’s support anyway.

***

John hefted the final crate onto the stack ready to be loaded into the van as soon as Anderson arrived with it. The tosser should have been there 20 minutes ago. Actually, that was probably the exact reason he was late.

“You done for the day, then?”

John spun around to see Sarah approach and smiled at the sight. He wasn’t sure if there would ever be anything between them, his brain was a little too occupied with Sherlock and the fact he was missing his flirting. But she was nice, intelligent and attractive, a combination that had been missing from the women he had dated of late.

“Not quite. Waiting for one of the guys from the shop to arrive with the van. But once it’s loaded up I’ll be right for a beer.”

“Has your friend left already?”

“Sherlock? No, he’s just gone to the loo. Listen, sorry about him this morning. He really isn’t feeling well, and he’s a bit of a grumpy bastard at the best of times.”

Sarah laughed. “I see unwell women day in day out, no need to explain.”

John glanced at his watch and frowned. “Actually, he’s been gone for a while. Maybe I should go check on him?”

“Want me to mind your stock while you do?”

“Would you mind? I shouldn’t be long, he’s probably just in there avoiding Anderson.”

“Anderson?”

“Oh, our coworker who is bringing the van. You’ll understand when you meet him.”

John upped his pace the closer he got to the gents. He wasn’t sure why, but he had a feeling in his guts that maybe Sherlock was more unwell than he’d let on. Bloody fool, thinking his mind could overpower his body. Still, John had never seen him sick, so maybe this was what Sherlock was like in those brief moments he did succumb to the flu.

It wasn’t long until he could see Sherlock up ahead, and the sight made his blood boil.

Jim Moriarty was escorting Sherlock towards the exit, arm around his waist (because the short bugger couldn’t reach his shoulders, no doubt). Luckily their pace was slowed by Sherlock’s movements, and he ran to catch up. Sherlock looked deathly pale, clutching the waste bin from the bathroom in his arms.

“Okay Jim, I can take it from here,” John said, gripping around the waist of Sherlock’s other side and tugging.

“I promise you I’m perfectly capable of getting him home. Why don’t you get back to entertaining your lady-friend. Wouldn’t want another eligible bachelor sneaking her away, would you?”

John ignored him. “Sherlock, stop for a minute. What’s your body doing to you?”

“Uncontrollable vomiting for the past 15 minutes, and it’s about to start up again. So if you two could please finish your pissing contest so I can get home and die somewhere more comfortable--”

Jim started up again. “Come now, John. I’m sure you’re a busy man. I’ll make sure he gets home safely and all tucked up in bed.”

John continued to ignore him, holding a hand to Sherlock’s forehead. “You’ve still got that fever.”

“It’s too bloody cold for me to have a fever.”

“No, you foolish git, that’s exactly what happens.”

Sherlock sighed as if he was finally resigned to the infestation taking over his body. “Take me home, John.”

John felt his lips tug into a fond smile. “Let’s go.”

“I’m more than happy to—“

“Oh, piss off, Jim,” John said, finally having had enough of him. “I can deal with Sherlock! I’m not just his coworker, you know!”

If Jim was going to say anything else, John didn’t give him the chance, instead herding Sherlock out the doors and into the fresh air.

“You shouldn’t have said that,” Sherlock told him when they were in the taxi.

“Said what?”

“That you weren’t just my coworker. Who knows what he’ll think.”

“That I’m also your friend? Your doctor? He can think what the bloody hell he likes. I know you’re not thinking straight right now, but once upon a time you told me that Jim doesn’t know where you live. This would have been his way of finding out.”

Sherlock sighed the sigh of someone in pain. “What would I do without you?”

John smirked. “You’d be a sight worse off than you are right now.”

“I don’t think that’s at all possible,” he said before heaving into the bucket.

Between losing the contents of his stomach, John somehow managed to get Sherlock up the stairs and into the bathroom. He washed the bucket out in the bath while Sherlock continued throwing up in the toilet. If this was a case of gastro, it was a particularly violent one.

He left him be to find a clean glass in the kitchen for some water. A bit of an impossible task with the state of the place, but he managed to locate one eventually. He was on his way back to the bathroom when he felt his pocket vibrate with a phone call. He couldn’t grab it before it went to voice mail.

“John, it’s Sarah. Just letting you know that Anderson has come to collect your things. At least I hope it was him. Whoever it was managed to hit on me about five times in three minutes. Anyway, some of the other exhibitors here are talking about how a few people have come down with food poisoning in the last few hours and have traced it back to the food court here. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with Sherlock? Anyway, call me when you get the chance.”

Shit. That bloody food court. When Sherlock came back to his normal self John was sure he would not hear the end of it.

***

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom a half hour later looking completely wiped out.

“How are you doing?”

“How can it come out both ends at the same time?”

John got up from the couch and gently prodded Sherlock towards his bedroom. “The joy of food poisoning. Come on, let’s get you to bed while there’s a bit of a break.”

“You mean there’ll be more?”

“Afraid so.”

John pulled back the duvet and urged Sherlock to slide in.

“If you cared for me even a little you would smother me with that pillow right now.”

“I promise I won’t let it go too long without medical intervention if it’s necessary, but the bug needs out of your system.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Sherlock’s shoes and sweaty socks off, then started in on his belt and flies.

“I know you’re probably not feeling the heat right now, but we need to cool you down.”

Sherlock lifted his hips so John could drag his trousers off. “When I’d envisaged finally getting you to undress me in bed, this is not quite how I thought it would go.”

John chuckled, heat rising to his cheeks. He couldn’t help the smile on his face. It had been weeks since Sherlock had done anything even vaguely resembling flirting with him and he felt the warmth of it to the tips of his toes.

Once Sherlock was stripped down and under the covers, John went and got the bucket and a cool flannel. He put the bucket next to the bed and stroked a caring hand over his forehead and down his cheek before gently laying the flannel over his eyes.

“Get some rest. Doctors orders.”

He left the door open and crept back to the couch, on guard for any noise coming from Sherlock’s bedroom. He settled in and pulled a crochet rug over himself, lifting Sherlock’s notebook computer to his lap so he could check his email.

Luckily the computer was only on stand-by, so he didn’t need to wait for Sherlock to wake to get the password. However, it wasn’t a browser open on the desktop, it was a Word document. More specifically, the novel Sherlock was writing. It had to be. Over 100,000 words long and his name on the first page. The novel John had been curious about since the first time he caught Sherlock making a note in his book.

He couldn’t read it, right? John thought it would be unethical and would clearly betray Sherlock’s trust. But then again, Sherlock had no scruples in going through John’s mobile and checking his message history, deducing his sister or his girlfriends with wildly accurate statements just from reading a few texts. Really, this would just be quid quo pro. Getting back a bit of his own medicine?

Guilt settling in, John minimised the window and opened up his gmail account, deleting the junk and advertising and sifting through the rest without really paying attention.

It really would be wrong of him to violate Sherlock’s privacy, wouldn’t it?

The cursor drifted over the Word icon at the bottom of the screen. John wondered if anyone else had ever read any of it, or if it was only Sherlock. John could be doing him a massive favour by reading it and offering his unbiased opinion.

Fuck it, John thought, and scrolled down to the first page. “A Study In Pink”.

And oh. Oh my. The “pink” things the protagonist of the story was “studying” were actually, um. Yes. Right.

Sherlock was writing pornography.

Chapter Text

As soon as he heard Sherlock’s bedroom door open, John quickly closed the lid to the laptop and stashed it under the coffee table. He picked up a copy of the paper on the table and pretended to read that while he finished his toast.

Sherlock wandered out looking pale and dishevelled, still in his pants and undershirt, not bothering to cinch his dressing gown around his waist. He collapsed onto the couch, head resting on John’s thigh, like the sheer effort it took to get out of bed was enough to send him back to sleep.

“What time is it?” Sherlock’s voice was deep and gravelly, and John felt a pang of sympathy.

“Just after 11:00,” he told him, giving his forehead a quick temperature check. Clammy, but still cool. “It’s been a good eight hours since your fever broke.”

“The store!” Sherlock suddenly sat up, but John used the hand on his chest to pull him back down and kept it there so he didn’t move. “Relax, I’ve got it covered.”

“But you and Sally have the day off today, I can’t let Anderson run it alone!”

“I told you, I have it covered. Just relax. He’s too intimidated by your brother to do anything untoward.”

“My brother?” Sherlock asked, and John waited for the tumblers to click into place. “Bloody hell, I’m actually dead, aren’t I?”

John chuckled. “You’re very much alive. I called Mycroft last night and he agreed that I needed to be here today to look after you. He can look after the place for a few days.”

“I can go back in tomorrow.”

“You will do no such thing. In fact, consider yourself having a doctor’s certificate for the rest of the week.”

“But the store—“

“The rest of the week,” John repeated. “You can go back on Friday if, and only if, you’re eating properly again.”

“Ugh, don’t mention food.”

“You don’t want to try some dry toast?”

“I’m surprised you managed to find anything edible in here.”

“I didn’t. Your housekeeper brought me up some tea and bread this morning.”

“I don’t have a housekeeper.”

John looked around at the piles of paper and books stacked haphazardly on every available smooth surface, clothes hanging off chairs, and dishes piled high in the sink.

“Obviously. Landlady then, Mrs Hudson? She stayed up here with you while I got my medical kit last night.”

“Oh right,” he said, like he was remembering. “Did you give me a shot of something in the middle of the night?”

“Maxalon. Figured your poor body needed a break.”

“Not just an excuse to see my arse?” Sherlock said, then closed his eyes. “Sorry, John. I know you don’t appreciate those comments. My brain is not fully back online again.”

“Surprisingly, I wasn’t too keen to get close to your bum last night.” John gave a soft smile. “And I never minded the comments, just the manipulative ones.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, and John could feel his heartbeat increase under his palm. Interesting. “Good, because it’s likely to happen again.”

“I gathered as much. How are you actually feeling this morning, then?”

“How do you think I feel? Like my blood has been replaced by helium and my bones with ball bearings.”

“If you’re refusing to eat you will at least drink some electrolytes. Get your energy back up.”

“What are the chances of you nagging me until I consent?”

“Very high-to-certain.”

“Fine then.”

“You must be feeling unwell still,” John said, wriggling out from under his head to get to the kitchen where he’d put his late-night-dash-to-the-chemist stash. He was stirring the powder into the water when Sherlock piped up again.

“So, what did you think?”

“Huh?”

“My book, what did you think?”

No one had ever accused John Watson of being able to think on his feet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You shoved my computer under the table as soon as you heard me come out of the bedroom and then pretended to read a years old column in an obituary. And you’re avoiding eye contact which can only mean you’ve done something you feel guilty for. And really, if you’re going to feel guilty about anything it should be to do with the fact that you made me get food from that sodding cesspit at the convention.”

“I didn’t make you get a pork sandwich!”

“You made me purchase food from an unsanitary establishment which resulted in my incapacitation. Until you injected me with that miracle drug. Whoever invented that one deserves a Nobel Prize.”

“Some people would probably think that I deserve a Nobel Prize, looking after you.”

“Stop changing the subject. You read my book. What did you think of it?”

John hesitated. Sherlock’s book wasn’t so much a novel as a collection of short stories. Some were excellent, but some were... “Well—“

“Spit it out, I want to know.”

“It’s just. You don’t take constructive criticism very well.” John handed Sherlock his drink, and he winced at the taste before shooting the rest down his throat.

“I take criticism just fine, thank you.”

“I told you your last blog post on the company website was long winded and you threatened to set my computer on fire!”

“That was different, you have barely had any exposure to writing for the web. But this is a book and you almost fit my demographic. I need your opinion.”

John took his seat back on the couch and Sherlock rested his head against his thigh once again.

“It’s good. Well written. Definitely erotic. Very hot.”

“Don’t sugar coat it.”

“I’m telling the truth. I like it. It just lacks emotion.”

Sherlock scoffed. “When it comes to erotica, emotion is not required.”

“But it is. Sure, that story with the young man in the back room of the gay club, maybe not then. But the married couple? Where the husband compromises his comfort levels completely to fulfill his wife’s fantasy? I know that one is a bit of a red herring, but not even a thank you at the end? I’m not finished them all, but you’re ending up with a collection of stories that are technically well written, but characters the reader will have no attachment to. They’re not going to care about any of them.”

Sherlock was silent for a beat and John was thankful the man appeared too exhausted for his usual wander-off-for-a-sulk routine.

“You sound like my editor.”

“You wanted my opinion. And if your editor and I agree, maybe it is something you should consider rather than dismissing it as drivel.”

“I wasn’t going to dismiss anything.”

“Please. You’re not the only one who can make deductions.”

“Well, if you’re not going to let me work then I shall have time to think about it.”

John let the subject drop. It was about as close to getting Sherlock to take advice as he was going to get.

***

The bell above the door chimed as John walked into the store, a good half-hour late thanks to a certain best friend. It was like dealing with a petulant child, sitting opposite him at the table watching him eat dry toast and black tea before leaving him alone for the day.

“Good morning, Dr Watson,” Anderson said as he approached the counter.

John’s eyebrows furrowed at the formal greeting. Oh god, what had he gotten up to unsupervised?

“Good morning, everything okay?” John asked, trying, and likely failing, to keep the hint of skepticism from his voice.

“Dr Watson, there you are.” Mycroft stepped out of the office before Anderson could respond. Seeing Mycroft Holmes in his expensive bespoke suit never failed to sock John in the guts. The man exuded power and intelligence, which was something John had always responded to. As far as looks went, he wasn’t as striking as his brother, but he was nothing to scoff at either.

“What’s wrong with Anderson?” John asked as he joined Mycroft in the office.

“I thought it was time the man learned to respect his superiors.”

“He finds you terrifying, you know.”

“Maybe he’ll think twice before sampling the wares during his shift next time.”

“Was it the new Power Pump?”

“Indeed it was.”

“To be fair, he does need all the help he can get in that department.”

“So I noticed. He does realise how wide the CCTV coverage stretches, yes?”

John nodded. “All part of Sherlock’s little experiment.”

“Yes, of course. Tell me, how is my brother faring?”

“He’s much better, but still weak. A few days away from work won’t kill him.”

Mycroft raised a single eyebrow. “Perhaps you do not know my brother as well as you thought?”

“I put an antihistamine in his tea this morning. He’ll be fine. Probably napping on the couch as we speak.”

The smirk reached Mycroft’s eyes. “How devious. I’m almost impressed.”

“I figure if I can get him to rest until at least Thursday I’ve done well.”

“If my brother can last until Thursday without incurring further damage to Baker Street, I shall nominate you for a national award.” Mycroft stood and took his coat from the back of the chair. “Well, I believe you will be able to look after things from here. Tell Sherlock that the catering company are being fined a large amount as well as being thoroughly investigated by every government department they can be. Including the tax office.”

“He’ll be happy to know that.”

“He and the 327 other people who ended up in hospital. Do call me if you require further assistance.”

“Sure. And thanks for looking after things here for us.”

“You’ve implemented some good changes. It was a pleasure to see them in action.”

John felt the blush crawl up his chest at the appraising look he was given.

“Thank you.”

“I have some ideas for this business. Maybe we should catch up for dinner one evening?”

He could only imagine Sherlock’s reaction to him socialising with his brother. “I’d like that.”

“I’ll have my assistant set something up for tomorrow night. There’s a French Restaurant not far from your apartment that has a most excellent wine list. Until then.” Mycroft nodded and left the room, leaving John feeling a bit gobsmacked.

French restaurant? Excellent wine? If it wasn’t for the fact that it was Mycroft Holmes, John would have thought he’d just been asked out on a date.

****

“Did you remember to get tea?”

John rolled his eyes as he opened the cupboard to put away the groceries he’d bought. Sherlock had managed three days at home on his own and was only just starting to show evidence of cabin fever.

“Good evening, John. How was work today? Oh it was great, thanks for asking, Sherlock. That’s good to hear, and thanks so much for buying food after working on the shop floor all day.” John threw a box of Twinings at Sherlock’s head. “Yes, I got your bloody tea.”

“No need for violence. I told you I was well enough to come in today.”

“And I told you if you manage to actually eat some dinner you can go in tomorrow.”

“It’s been four days, John!”

“So eat your dinner tonight!” he said as he ascended the stairs to the spare bedroom to change out of his work clothes. John could hear Sherlock’s scoff even behind the closed door.

Dinner was chicken that Molly had steamed for them, along with a bit of rice and some Asian greens. Sherlock made a show of shovelling the food into his mouth.

“I have to go in tomorrow, anyway,” he said between bites. “I’m meeting with The Woman’s agent at ten.”

“What for?”

“For her DVD launch, of course.”

John’s eyes widened in surprise and he couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face. “She agreed?”

“She did. I told you on Sunday. You probably couldn’t hear me over your excessive flirting.”

“I wasn’t flirting.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“It was a business discussion!”

“Last time I had a business discussion that looked like that I ended up on my back on a bear skin rug.”

John tried not to let that description paint an image in his mind.

“You have a bear skin rug?”

“No, more’s the pity. They are surprisingly unscratchy.”

He rolled his eyes. “Well, speaking of business discussions, we should receive Sarah’s shipment in three weeks. We’ll have to work out the visual merchandising and release schedule for it.”

“You’ll want to do this in conjunction with Dr Sawyer, I presume? On your own? Over candlelight?”

He tried not to get annoyed with Sherlock’s tone of voice. Despite his protests, his body was still recovering from such a violent attack of food poisoning. Also, he did like to be the centre of John’s attentions.

“Whatever happens between Sarah and I outside of work is completely different to any business happenings. As store manager it is your job to be involved in that side of things.”

“So there will be out of work happenings with her?”

“How is this any different to you going out for dinner with Irene as well as selling her DVDs?”

“She’s as friend.”

“As is Sarah, so drop it.”

“But—“

“Drop it,” he said a little more forcefully. If he was this difficult to talk about Sarah with, what would he be like when he found out he had been to dinner with his brother?

***

Sherlock returned to 221B after work that Saturday to a heavy chemical scent coming from his flat. He took the stairs two at a time, eager to ensure John was safe. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had attempted to gas Sherlock out of his lodgings.

“John!” He flung open the door to the flat and could not believe what he was seeing.

“Oh, hello,” John said from the bathroom doorway, holding a scrubbing brush in his gloved hand. Sherlock suddenly recognised the smell; bleach. “You’re home early.”

“It’s after six.”

“Already? Can you turn the oven down to 100 degrees for me?”

“John? What is going on?”

“Trying to make your cesspit more livable. And I don’t have a working oven in my apartment and had a sudden craving for roasted vegetables.”

Sherlock looked around at his lounge room. All of his books were shelved, his papers in neat piles on the table, the floors vacuumed.

“Perhaps I liked the chaos?”

“Perhaps you are incredibly lazy. No wonder you’ve been unable to find a flatmate.”

“You’ve stuck around all week.”

“Because you’ve needed looking after.”

“Please,” Sherlock scoffed. “I haven’t needed looking after since Monday. You’re here because you want to be.”

John pulled off his rubber gloves as he entered the lounge room.

“You’ve deduced that, have you?” He crossed his arms.

“You’re standing in your friend’s flat in nothing but your pants and undershirt, scrubbing soap scum from tile you did not create and making it a more attractive place to live. You are taking advantage of a fully functioning kitchen, have stocked the pantry with actual edible food, and haven’t stayed back at work even once this week, although you did have that business dinner with Mycroft, but that hardly counts. Most of your more favoured possessions have migrated over, you are obviously much happier here than your dark den of an apartment and the sooner you agree that this arrangement will work in both of our favours and move in, the happier both of us will be.”

John stood for a beat and looked out the window. Sherlock held his breath while he waited for John’s response. John had never walked out on him after one of his deductions, but there was a first time for everything.

After what felt like an age, John finally met his eyes. Sherlock was not one for patience.

“So.” He shrugged. “How much is rent?”

***

It only took an hour and one cab ride for John to transfer his belongings to Baker Street. Sherlock was generous and gave him the morning off work, leaving Sally in charge to no doubt throw her weight around until John went in after lunch.

“Oh, Dr Watson!” Mrs Hudson said as they carried boxes of John’s possessions up the stairs. “You’re moving in.”

“Yes, I am,” John said in a polite way that would only please a woman of her generation.

“Mrs Hudson, please.” Sherlock stopped behind John with a heavy box of books in his hands. “Either grab a box and help us upstairs, or refrain from continuing this conversation until it’s done.”

Mrs Hudson ignored him. “It’s lovely to see Sherlock settle down with someone.”

“Mrs Hudson!”

“Thought I was going to have to install a revolving door at one stage.”

“Not helping, Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock said over John’s chuckle. “Move, John!”

“I would help you carry up your things, dear, but I’ve got this hip—“

“No worries, Sherlock and I have got it, don’t we?”

Sherlock grumbled in response. For someone with few possessions they sure weighed a ton.

“Sorry,” John said when they got upstairs. “You must have grabbed the box with my medical texts.”

“You still have medical books?” His curiosity was piqued. Sherlock had a few laying around the flat, but most were antiquated and only good as an historical source.

“Of course. I may not be practicing right now, but I’m still a doctor and I need to keep up with the latest research and happenings in the field.”

“So you’re intending to go back then? To the profession?”

“I’m not sure yet. It’s been nice having a break from it, but I can’t deny I’m still interested.”

Suddenly the tumblers all fell into place. “Of course. Your dinner with Mycroft.”

“What about my dinner with Mycroft?” John had been secretive about it, but it was all starting to make sense.

“He propositioned you,” he started, then at the look on John’s face, clarified, “not of a sexual nature, grow up. He’s been interested in expanding the business for a while, found a bargain the other side of London, no doubt, and wants to turn it into another version of The Vibe but with you heading it up instead of me. Oh, he is crafty.”

“What? How--?”

“You’ve started reading your medical magazines and journals in your lunch break, and your catching up with Sarah has once again piqued your interest. Mycroft’s proposal, completely against my wishes as I have told him several times you are vital to our store, has made you think about whether you would consider a complete career change permanently.”

“Vital?”

“You put up with Sally, control Anderson, and are able to work alongside me. I’d say you were vital.”

“So that’s what positive feedback feels like,” John muttered.

“I give you positive feedback.”

“How my arse looks on any given day is not related to my work.”

“On the contrary, wearing those jeans the other week ensured repeat custom from several new people.”

Redness swept across John’s cheeks. “Right then. Let’s go get the rest of my stuff from downstairs, yeah?”

As Sherlock followed behind John down the stairs and got a good look at the arse in the jeans in question. One thing he was certain of with John’s moving in; seeing this all day every day should definitely dampen the attraction. Definitely.

***

Sherlock thought that whoever suggested that familiarity breeds contempt had obviously never been enamoured of John Watson. Living with him was turning into some kind of self-inflicted torture.

He wasn’t one to endure the constant company of others, yet John was in his life practically every waking moment and Sherlock had yet to tire of him. If anything, he felt himself drawn closer. It was most disturbing, especially with how much delight Irene took in his infatuation. Vile woman.

So when John wasn’t around to cook him dinner or yell at him for playing the violin so late at night, Sherlock found himself craving his company. It was strange. When he was first looking for a flatmate, he was hoping it would be someone who was never around to bother him. Now, John was out taking Sarah to dinner and he was watching the clock waiting for his return.

It was just after eleven when he finally came back, footsteps slow but steady on the stairs. They’d shared a bottle of wine then, maybe two, so John would be loose lipped and possibly loose limbed. He had a great tolerance with lager, but start the man on wine and he would be half drunk without realising how he got there.

“You’re still up? What am I saying, of course you are,” John said as he walked into the lounge. He fell heavily next to Sherlock on the couch, practically falling on top of him and causing the medical journal he was reading to fall to the floor. Sherlock could smell a hint of red wine as well as the floral of a perfume on his jumper and tamped down the hot feeling that suddenly rose from his stomach.

“Good night, then?”

“Enjoyable. We went to this lovely restaurant only a few blocks from here. I should take you there some time.”

That was promising. John was sentimental and if his first date with Sarah went spectacularly well he’d hardly want to share the venue with another. And while he smelt of her perfume, there was not a smudge of lipstick or gloss anywhere but his cheek.

“So you’ll be going out with her again?”

John burrowed the back of his head into Sherlock’s shoulder, seemingly trying to get comfortable against the bony joint. He looked up at him with tired eyes. “You haven’t deduced it already?”

Well, yes, he had, obviously, but he’d learned that John was less amenable to his deductions when he was fatigued.

“You had a rather pleasant evening, meeting at the restaurant before going for a stroll through the park to Sarah’s house where she left you with a kiss on the cheek. She would have invited you in but she has an early appointment tomorrow, and you were somewhat relieved as while you like her, you aren’t exactly sure where this will lead. Although you were disappointed to not get anything other than a goodnight peck on the cheek.”

John continued to gaze up at Sherlock. “Brilliant. All of it. How--?”

“You met late for dinner and are home after three hours, not enough time for anything other than dinner and another quick activity, such as walking through the park, which is obvious due to the bottom of your trouser leg being damp and the soil stuck to the soles of your shoes. You have lip gloss on the side of your face, so a quick kiss goodbye and the promise of more to come, but you’re affectionate when it comes to people you like and wished to see how compatible you are in that capacity.”

Sherlock looked down to see John staring at his mouth and running his tongue across his own lips. His breath caught in his throat.

“You’re brilliant. And you’re right. I do like seeing if there’s any compatibility with kissing someone I like,” he said in an almost-whisper, holding Sherlock’s gaze. “See if that chemistry is going to lead somewhere.”

Loose lipped and loose limbed indeed, Sherlock could see John’s neck straining up at the same time he felt his own bending down of its own free will, ready to meet those lips at last. To finally satiate the curiosity and attraction to this man.

Sherlock’s lips were almost upon John’s when he took a breath and smelled nothing but red wine and a hint of garlic. Disappointment ran cold in his chest.

“You’re drunk.”

“Just a little,” he replied, inching even closer. Sherlock turned his head away and John’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “I thought—“

“You’re tired and slightly inebriated. We don’t want to do anything we might regret,” he said, sending a message to every part of his body that was telling him to continue the embrace, to see where it would lead, to shut the hell up.

“Oh.” John sat up and ran a hand down his face. “You’re right, of course. And I should be going to bed. Big day tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, picking up the fallen journal from the floor. “Good night, then.”

John waved him off and headed up the stairs to his room while Sherlock sat quietly on the couch and mentally kicked himself in the head. But John’s friendship was too rare to lose over an encounter such as that. Sherlock could not take advantage of his more amorous mood.

And later in bed that evening, if Sherlock shoved a hand down his pants and thought of the possibilities of where the night could have lead had he been less chivalrous, well, he was only human.

***

To say Irene Adler had a loyal fanbase would be like saying that the Antarctic could be a little nippy. Her DVD was to be launched at 11:00AM, followed by an hour and a half of signing, and finishing with the drawing of the winner for a session with The Woman herself. They had advertised in store, on their website, twitter, facebook, and email, and it had appeared that half of London had received the memo.

Sherlock had never seen the place so busy. John had snaked the queue through the store but the line still managed to run out the door. All hands were on deck for the day; John was in charge of the logistics and first aid, Sally and two of their part-time staff were manning the tills, Anderson was at the front door to direct people, a few of their other part-timers were busy restocking shelves and helping with enquiries. Which left Sherlock at the signing table with Irene.

“With your powers of observation you will be able to tell who will want to cause trouble before they even get to her,” John had said. “Besides, I know how much the two of you enjoy each other’s company.”

Sherlock had raised his eyebrow at the tone. “Normally I’d say that jealousy was not an attractive quality, but you manage to make even that look good. Shouldn’t surprise me really, you even looked alright in that ghastly jumper you wore last night.”

Sherlock probably deserved the finger that John had flicked up at him.

The morning was interminable, not only because of the clientele that such an appearance brought out, but also due to a certain woman who believed she could read his mind.

“If I wasn’t a lesbian before this signing, I certainly am now,” Irene said once a particularly gushing fan left. “How did I let you talk me into this?”

“Because you’re a greedy fame whore.”

“And you wanted to see the pleased smile on John’s face when you told him his idea would work.” Sherlock tried not to scowl at that comment. “Sherlock relationships-are-pointless Holmes is smitten. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“You have ten minutes left, hurry through the last of your followers, so we can find out which of these people get an hour with your wares.”

It felt like an age before the last person was finally through, but it was only probably thirty minutes. Regardless, it was longer than planned as lunch had just arrived and it wasn’t due until an hour after the signing was scheduled to finish.

“What is that?” Irene practically purred.

Sherlock followed her eyes to Molly standing by the counter, joking with Sally. She had her hair down, falling across her shoulders, and a pink twin set which matched a rather pretty skirt.

“Lunch,” Sherlock said.

“More like dessert.” And with that, Irene was up off her chair and heading toward the counter, black cat-suit accentuating her figure. God, she was going to eat poor Molly alive.

“The draw!” Sherlock called after her but she dismissed him.

“We’ll do it in five minutes.” She came to a stop in front of Molly and held out her hand. “Irene Adler.”

“Uh, Molly Hooper.” She blushed and shook her hand. “Oh, you’re the lady from the videos.”

“You know my work?”

Molly’s blush got impossibly darker. “No, I mean, I see your face on those posters,” she pointed around the shop, “but I haven’t seen your, ah, work.”

“Oh, but you must.” Irene grabbed a DVD from the counter. “Here. It’s my latest. On the house.”

“Hang on!” Sherlock called out but was once again ignored.

“I’ll even sign it for you.” She took a marker and started writing. “Dear Molly, we should do dinner sometime. Always, Irene Adler.”

“Oh, thanks,” Molly said, too polite not to take it.

“And don’t forget to fill out your details on this card for the door prize. Free entry with every copy sold.”

“But I didn’t buy it.”

“Yes you did.” Irene practically stood over Molly while she filled it in.

Sherlock was growing impatient of all the pointless flirting. Honestly, if it wasn’t his brother with John, then it was Irene with any pretty lady. “Can we get on with the draw yet? I’d like to go home sometime this evening.”

John got the microphone out and gathered those who were waiting around for the draw. Irene stuck her hand in the tub and pulled out one of the folded pieces of paper. She smiled as she opened it and turned on her most predatory look.

“And the winner of the complementary session with yours truly is,” she held up the piece of paper and looked toward the counter. “Molly Hooper.”

Poor Molly looked as if she were about to faint as the crowd gathered around her and clapped.

“You don’t have to take her up on it, you know,” John told her once Irene had left to get changed and they were sitting around eating their lunch. “I’m sure Anderson would gladly take it off your hands.”

“Of course she won’t take her up on it,” Sherlock said. “It would be the last thing she’d do.”

“What do you mean?” Molly asked, attention turned to him. Good. An audience.

“As she approached you this afternoon, your eyes widened and you took a step back, clearly intimidated by her. You did as she said, of course, you hate to disappoint anyone, especially someone with that forceful a personality. You come here almost daily, yet have never looked around at the merchandise, even when we offered you a significant discount, and when you do get caught with something, you blush furiously. So I can only conclude that the last thing you would ever want to do is take Irene up on her offer of a free session. Your tastes are too vanilla for it anyway. You’ve barely even been on a date in the past four years.”

Molly’s eyes were wide and she looked almost as if she were shocked someone would think that of her.

“I’m not a prude!”

“If you actually go through with this session I will eat my hat.”

Irene chose that moment to step back into the room. Molly wasted no time trying to prove him wrong.

“Are you around next Friday?” Molly asked.

“For you? I can make sure of it.” Irene’s pleased smirk said it all.

“I will finish work at four o’clock. Would five suit you?”

“Of course. We can get a bite to eat after it.”

Molly shot him a determined look, and Sherlock did his best to display a façade of nonchalance.

“That was mean,” John started when it was just the two of them cleaning up at the end of the day. “What you said to Molly. You know she fancies you.”

“Rubbish. She only thinks she fancies me, and destroys any other potential because she sees this as a failure. This will be good for her. One afternoon with the Woman and she will realise that her feelings for me were over some time ago.”

John stood still, broom in his hand, and stared at him. “So you antagonising the poor girl, that was—“

“Me ensuring she gets an afternoon of feeling adored? I’m not heartless, you know.”

“I’m beginning to see that,” John said, soft smile on his face that Sherlock could feel all the way to the pit of his stomach. It was an unusual feeling. One he didn’t believe he had ever felt in his life before meeting John, and it had only gotten worse since they started cohabitating. Maybe John wasn’t so good for his health after all.

***

It had been a long day and all John wanted to do was get home, have a long hot shower, and order in a curry. He’d had monthly stocktake and two people call in sick, so it was after eight by the time he departed. Unfortunately, the universe had other plans for his evening, his mobile ringing when he was only ten minutes from the store.

“Listen to me carefully and do as I say,” the voice at the other end said.

John’s brow furrowed. “Mycroft?”

“You are not able to go home directly, I’m afraid. There’s a pub about five minutes away from you. Walk left down the next street and you should see it. Now say I’m on my way.”

“I’m on my way,” John said, still perplexed as to what was going on.

“I’ll have Sherlock meet you there shortly, but you are not to go home until I give you the all clear. Understand?”

The pub wasn’t one of John’s preferred establishments, but the food smelled hot and fried and the beer looked cool. He took a seat in the bistro and ordered some dinner while he waited for his flatmate to arrive.

“What’s all this, then?” John asked him as Sherlock took a seat opposite.

“One of the perks of living with me, I’m afraid, is the British Government knowing your every move. I probably should have warned you about that.” Sherlock took a long sip of his red wine and looked anything but apologetic.

“And the reason for that?” John didn’t mind so much that he was being watched. Hell, with his time in the army he was pretty much used to being monitored. But he could not imagine Mycroft Holmes sitting in front of screens watching him day in day out for no reason, no matter what little thrill ran down his spine at the thought.

“You’d have a better chance with that woman by the bar,” Sherlock said, eyeing her. John followed his gaze. “About your age, recently separated from her husband, feeling neglected and clearly looking for some fun.”

“Wait, what are you talking about?”

“The brunette woman over there. No ring, but a tan line to indicate that she has been wearing one up until sometime recently. Short skirt, heels and a sleeveless top in an attempt to advertise her assets, even though the weather is not anywhere near appropriate for such apparel. Slight stain along her hairline indicates a makeover sometime in the past two days, a hair cut and dye for a self-esteem boost and symbolic way to reinvent her post-husband life.”

John shook his head. “Brilliant.”

“And you’d have a much better shot at bedding her than you ever will my brother.”

He rolled his eyes. “For the last time, I do not wish to bed your brother.”

“Really, John. Your crush is a little obvious.”

“I can find another man attractive without wanting to shag him, you know,” he said. “And stop changing the subject. Why are we here?”

Sherlock’s eyes met his before flicking back down to his wine. “There is a certain someone in my life who sometimes tries to follow me home from work.”

John didn’t need more than one guess at who that could be. “Jim Moriarty.”

“He may have surmised your current living arrangements, and if that is the case you may have found yourself being tailed after work tonight.”

“And what, Mycroft calls and tells you to go to a pub and wait it out?”

“Generally, yes. It’s not too bad an arrangement. I get the chance to write and people watch until I am told that it’s safe to depart.”

“And what if it isn’t safe? What if he stays until closing?”

“Then I find someone to go home with.”

“And what if you don’t?” The look Sherlock shot John spoke volumes. “Sorry, of course you’ve never been turned down. Everyone wants to sleep with the great Sherlock Holmes.”

“Not everyone,” Sherlock said, giving John a pointed look that he felt right down to his bones. Heat crawled up his cheeks as images flashed through his mind of how much closer they seem to have gotten in the month they’d been living together. Sherlock walking from the bathroom to his bedroom in nothing but a towel. John falling asleep on the couch, head pillowed on Sherlock’s thigh. The way Sherlock had licked the butterscotch sauce from his fingers after he ate the pudding John had made them.

Yeah, right. Not everyone, indeed.

Any response John was about to make was silenced by the ringing of Sherlock’s mobile. Baby Elephant Walk, could only be one person.

“That was Mycroft,” Sherlock said when he ended the call.

John’s eyes went wide. “Really?”

“Sarcasm, John? Really?”

John’s smug grin was his only response.

“Anyway, confirmation that it is safe to return to Baker Street has come through if you wish to go home.”

“I’d be okay to stay for another beer if you like?”

Sherlock opened his mouth as if he were about to protest. Could probably tell how tired John was from the collar of his shirt or wrinkles near his left eye.

Instead, he simply lifted his glass and took a healthy swig.

“So tell me, John,” Sherlock said. “Do you come here often?”

A cackle of laughter pealed from John’s mouth at the terrible pick up line. Sherlock’s smirk suggested the humour was intentional.

“Has that line every actually worked for you?”

“Can’t say I’ve used it before. But I believe my chances of you coming home with me are pretty good.”

When they eventually wandered back to Baker Street, half cut and using each other as support, John didn’t think about Mycroft or Sarah or anyone else who might take his fancy. All he thought about was the man bumping into his sore shoulder, the nonsense that was spewing from his mouth, and how much he wouldn’t mind shutting him up the old fashioned way.

It would pass, of course, it always did even if such thoughts were occurring more often of late. But for now he enjoyed the inane conversation, and the drunken octopus Sherlock inevitably became after he’d had a few.

And if John thought that he’d be happy spending the rest of his life having the amount of fun he’d had that night, present company included, well, that was his own business.

Chapter Text

As it turned out, the repetitive thunk John could hear from the bathroom actually was coming from their flat.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” John asked, clutching at the towel around his waist.

Sherlock turned from the wall to give what he probably thought was a surreptitious glance up and down John’s not-quite-dry body, but John could feel every movement of that gaze. Sherlock turned back to the wall and threw the next knife at it. There appeared to be six of them imbedded in Mrs Hudson’s wallpaper.

“Getting rid of some frustration. It helps me think.”

“Because heaven forbid you go for a run or meditate like a normal person.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched. “It’s writers block! Ever since you gave your blasted advice--“

“Advice?” John asked, lifting blankets and papers from the ground while still keeping hold of his towel. “About how you might need some actual emotion in there?”

“I’ve tried!” Sherlock said, pulling the knives from the wall before lining up and trying to hit the same spots again. “It doesn’t work! I’ve sat here for the past three weeks and nothing is coming.”

“Maybe you need a break from it?”

“I need to write, John. I need to write every day and I’m stuck. My brain refuses to start anything until this anthology is finished.”

“Can you at least stop ruining the wall? It’s going to come out of our rent, you know.”

He wasn’t surprised that Sherlock ignored that comment. “What are you looking for anyway?”

John looked up from his scavenging. “I had a basket of clean laundry here. Have you seen it?”

Judging by the blink-and-you’d-miss-it look of guilt that hit Sherlock’s face, it was obvious he had.

“The contents of that basket may have found the need to be rewashed.”

John stood straight, shoulders back and chest out like he would when about to reprimand one of his troops.

“And why would that be?”

“It may have gotten in the way of a full cup of tea.”

John could read between the lines. “You threw a cup of tea at my clean clothes? That pile contained my entire stash of clean underpants!”

“I’ve put them back through the machine.”

“That doesn’t help me now!” John rubbed at his temples with his free hand and took a deep breath. “I’m running late to open the store, so I’m not going to argue with you, but you have to find a better outlet for your frustration that doesn’t injure other people’s belongings.”

“You sound like Mycroft.”

“Your brother is a smart man.”

Sherlock sneered. “Then why don’t you go marry him?”

“I should,” he said more to antagonise his flatmate than actually meaning it.

Sherlock’s head turn was so quick John was surprised he didn’t have whiplash. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“You’d better hope he doesn’t ask, then. At least he wouldn’t ruin my clothes.”

John’s heavy footsteps up the stairs blocked out any grumbling coming from the lounge. He hurriedly threw on jeans and a jumper and rushed back down. At this rate he’d have to run to the store to get it open in time for the first of the staff to arrive.

“You’ll be in before lunch, yeah?” he asked, grabbing his keys. “We’ve got to go through this month’s P&L today.”

“I’ll be there,” Sherlock grumbled, sitting on the couch in a sulk with his arms folded. At least he’d stopped throwing sharp objects. “You found some pants then?”

“Nope,” John said as he unlocked the door and skipped down the stairs to the street. He thought he heard a groan coming from the flat, but it was probably just the door hinges.

***

John looked up from the spreadsheet so see a large coffee cup from his favourite café in front of his nose.

“Apology accepted,” he said, taking it.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “I haven’t apologised for anything.”

“You’re forgiven anyway.” It was the closest thing John was going to get for the tea-meets-pants incident, after all.

“What are you up to?” Sherlock asked, crossing to his side of the desk to view the spreadsheet John was working on.

“Just checking all the invoices have been entered.” Sherlock was standing so close John could smell his aftershave. It was his favourite scent on him, and for moment John wondered if Sherlock knew that before concluding that of course he would. This was Sherlock and he was trying to get back into John’s good graces.

“So boring,” Sherlock pouted. “Surely there’s something more interesting to do.”

“Until the books are balanced there is no such thing.”

They worked steadily through lunch, sitting side-by-side to cross check each other’s work, shoulders bumping occasionally, feet tapping each other when they stretched. For all that Sherlock seemed to be oblivious to emotion, he sure was good at sending John mixed signals. One minute he would be flirting, the next apologising for it, and the one after that invading his personal space.

When they had finally finished, John stretched and put his pen down.

“God, where did the day go?”

“Time flies when you’re doing the world’s most boring work.”

“Perils of running a small business.” John smiled. “Well, I best be off. You’re on close tonight, right?”

“You’re not staying?”

It was probably a fair question, it wasn’t like John wasn’t known to stay behind way later than he needed to.

“Nope. Got a date.”

“With Sarah?”

“Of course. There’s no one else I’m seeing right now.”

“Right.” Sherlock cleared his throat and stood from the desk, creating some distance between them. “I guess I won’t expect you home tonight, then.”

“It’s only a second date.”

“And that’s stopped you before?”

Sherlock said that with such disdain that John had to take a breath to calm himself. Sherlock sure knew how to make his blood boil. And he of all people commenting on his sex life? Like he never slept around?

“This might be news to you, but you are not actually my boyfriend.”

“I don’t have boyfriends.”

“Then stop acting like a jealous one!” John gathered up his jacket. “I like Sarah, I enjoy her company. We are going out tonight, and I do not need to check in with you as to whether or not I’m coming home.”

He left the office before he could get another cutting response, taking the long route home and letting the cool breeze wash over him. Just because Sherlock was happy with casual sex and not having anyone to go home to didn’t mean he had the right to judge John because he did.

Sure, he did have Sherlock to come home to now, much better than his sparse and dank empty apartment, but that wasn’t coming home to a loved one, no matter how much affection he felt for the tosser. It wasn’t coming home to a kiss or a cuddle, maybe a quick shag before dinner. It wasn’t someone to curl up on the couch with and debrief about his day. The sex was probably on offer if John ever wanted to take Sherlock up on it, but that was all it would ever be, and John wanted more.

And now he’d met Sarah. Smart, pretty, comfortable Sarah. John thought maybe, just maybe, they could have a future together. He could have that someone to come home to.

Still, later that night when Sarah invited him up for a nightcap, he declined, citing an early morning of work and kissing her on the cheek before he left.

He crept up the stairs to 221B a little after 11:00PM, ignoring Sherlock’s gaze as he walked up to his room, still feeling the aftertaste of resentment for his earlier behavior. He decided a quick shower was in order to wash away the irritation of the day and stood under the warm, soothing spray until it started to run cold. When he got back to his room, feeling refreshed and relaxed, he found a hot cup of tea and the latest issue of his favourite medical magazine on his bedside table.

John was smiling as he fell asleep.

***

“Sherlock, come here.” John beckoned him over with his hand.

“What is it?”

“I want to show you something.” He lowered his voice. “Look at that couple in the aisle over to your right.”

Sherlock observed for a moment, considering. “Lesbians. Together maybe two years? Recently moved in together. Looking to spice things up although the shorter one is skeptical.”

John stared at him, a look of awe on his face. “As amazing as that is, watch them.”

“What am I looking for?”

“Look for the cues. The taller of the two, notice how she’s always touching her girlfriend? Even when she is getting something from the shelf, she keeps her other hand on the small of her back.”

“So?”

“This is how your characters can show more emotion, more feeling. Look at the admiration on the other woman’s face. Eyes are wide and bright, she leans into the touch. And you’re quite right, she does seem skeptical, but she’s giving it a go because she wants to make her girlfriend happy.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he took in more data. It’s not like he hadn’t seen behaviour like theirs before, he’d just never translated it in a way that could possibly improve his book.

“Huh.”

“This is what your story needs. Observations like that. Show the reader that your characters actually like each other more than just physically.”

He was trying to catalogue their behaviours and the subtle physical reactions when a thought suddenly occurred.

“Wait a moment.” He glanced around the store. “Where’s Anderson?”

John’s eyes followed Sherlock’s. “He should be straightening up the costume section after that Hen’s group tornado’d through it this morning.”

“He should be, but he rarely does as he’s told when there’s attractive lesbians in the store.”

Without another word, they both went for the stairs leading to the costume department at the same time. They found Anderson transfixed, looking at them over the bannister.

“What are you doing?” John whispered in his soldier voice which had way more power than Sherlock thought John was aware of. A shiver ran down his spine.

Anderson’s facial expression could only be labelled dreamy. “Aren’t they lovely?”

“They are customers!”

“They are lesbians who are about to buy a strap on.” Anderson sighed. “Which do you think will be wearing it?”

Sherlock was about to answer with the taller one, obviously but was interrupted before he could begin.

“Enough of this. Get to the storeroom and start unpacking the pallet that came in this morning.” John’s order was met with a hunching of shoulders as Anderson descended down the stairs.

“There’s cameras out there!” Sherlock reminded him, and watched Anderson divert his path towards the men’s room instead.

***

“Lunch!” Sally called out. It was always like herd of elephants descending on their food. Sherlock approached the counter like a normal person in control of their appetite, but the view ahead stopped him in his tracks.

Molly looked up at him and smiled, and Sherlock almost did a double take to make sure it was her. Her usual calf-length skirt and high-necked twin set had been replaced by a v-neck wrap dress that barely skimmed her knees. Her hair, usually pulled back in a braid, was loose, and she was wearing lipstick.

“So what’s his name?” Sally asked, eyes sparkling like she was about to hear a piece of delicious gossip.

Molly’s blush went all the way down her neck. “Uh, Peter. He’s a forensic pathologist at St Bart’s.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened at that. Of all the people dear, sweet, vanilla, innocent Molly could go on a date with. And yes, it was obvious she had a date this afternoon.

“What does that mean?” Sally asked.

“I’m not sure exactly—“

Sherlock cursed how uneducated his team appeared to be. “It means he cuts up dead bodies.”

“Sherlock!” John scolded, giving him a look. Right, that was the kind of information he probably should not be imparting when Molly had finally found the courage to see someone in a romantic sense.

“You mean he does autopsies?” Molly asked, her mouth pulling into a smile, eyes lighting up. “Wow. That would be fascinating!”

Sherlock exchanged a surprised look with John.

“Thanks for letting me know, I’ll have so many questions to ask him on our date, now!”

Conversation shifted to ex-boyfriends and girlfriends with unusual jobs until everyone had finished eating and it was time to get back to work. Molly stayed with them the entire time, so Sherlock helped her pack up.

“So, you’ve had your session with Irene, then?” It wasn’t a question. The hair, the clothes, the air of confidence that surrounded her, all evidence.

The blush, once again, carried down to her chest. “It was enlightening.”

“I’m sure it was.” Sherlock placed the unopened drinks back into the basket. “I am glad to hear you have a date.”

She looked surprised. “You are?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It is apparent that humans find happiness in sharing their life with another. I wish you to be happy.”

She smiled “Thank you.”

“So who is this Peter? Aside from his work?”

He noted the shy smile as she began speaking. Is that how one looked when speaking of a potential flame? He would have to note it down for his book.

“He comes into the café most days, and we’ve chatted every now and then. I thought he might have liked me, but then again, I’ve always been so shy around men.”

Interesting. “Why did you think he liked you?”

“The little things, you know,” she started. “Like if we were busy, he’d linger until it wasn’t so we could chat. His fingers would often brush mine when he handed over his money. One day he brought me in a magazine because I’d told him I was wanting to grow my own organic vegetables. You know? Things like that.”

“I see.”

“A bit like you and John, really,” she said, packing the last of her items into the basket, completely missing the look of confusion that crossed his face. He and John? “You know, how you’re always touching each other, and when you come to the café you always get him the caramel slice, and if he comes to the café he always gets you one of those biscuits you’re so fond of?”

Touching each other? Buying each other things the other would like? They did indulge each other occasionally, true, but was this typical of a relationship?

“We’re not together. I don’t have relationships, remember?”

“Oh,” she said. “I overheard your friend say something once, and then when he moved in with you I just assumed… oh, nevermind. My mistake.”

“Friend?” Sherlock didn’t have many friends, let alone many that would speak of he and John being together. Unless it was Mycroft trying to plant the seed in Molly’s head. Interfering toff bastard.

“The short one? Bit of an accent. Maybe Irish?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, breath hitching momentarily. “Jim Moriarty?”

“Yes, him! He could have been speaking of another Sherlock, maybe?”

“My name is not exactly common.” Sherlock was distracted. Who was Jim speaking with, and why was he assuming John was his partner? Was it only from John’s comments when escorting him home after Sexpo?

“It isn’t, is it? Oh well, I must be off. My date is coming up in the next hour.”

He watched her walk towards the door and called out to her.

“Molly!”

She turned around.

“I’m glad to see that The Woman has, for once, had such a positive influence. You look very pretty.”

“Thank you. I haven’t had much confidence in that department these past few years. It’s kind of nice to look forward to something no matter what the outcome will be, you know?”

Sherlock thought of John and everything Molly had just said about the behaviour of two people who had romantic feelings for each other. “I might do.”

***

Sherlock spent the rest of the day watching John for these signs Molly spoke of. It appeared that she was speaking the truth. If John was to walk past him, he would grab Sherlock by the hips as he walked by, ostensibly to keep him out of his way, but perhaps not? And Sherlock also found himself drawn to him in a way he was not previously conscious of. They often knocked shoulders or elbows or clapped a hand on each other’s shoulders if they were sharing a joke.

And John did make him tea, quite often, actually. And Sherlock always looked to see if there was a new issue of his favourite medical or sports magazines when he picked up the morning paper.

Could it be true? Could Sherlock be emitting signs of potential courtship towards his best friend? That he is attracted to John is hardly a surprise, he’d made those intentions clear almost from the start. But John had never taken him up on the offer, even when he was more subtle about it. He’d deduced that John would have to feel a similar level of attraction, but being the emotional creature he was, did not seem satisfied with what would essentially be a one night stand.

A few nights later, he was laying on the couch watching tele when John got home from date number three with Sarah. For as long as he’d known John, he had never known him to come home after a third date.

He put two cups of tea on the coffee table.

“Come on, head up,” John said so he could sit down on the couch too. Sherlock raised himself enough for him to drop down, then rested his head on John’s thighs. It was familiar. Comfortable.

“This is such a lie,” John said after a few minutes, gesturing to the TV.

“He’s telling the truth,” Sherlock responded.

“How can you tell?”

“It sounds far-fetched, but he keeps looking up, so he is recalling actual events that have happened.”

They turned their attention back to the television as the guest on Would I Lie To You pressed the button to reveal their story was actually true.

“You’re brilliant. Why do you even watch this show if you can tell who’s lying?”

“I enjoy David Mitchell’s humour.”

“Ah, of course you do.”

A few hours later, Sherlock was rudely woken by a sharp noise coming from the television. He lifted his head, slightly disoriented, to see that he was still on the couch, head still pillowed on John’s legs.

“Sorry,” John whispered, hitting the buttons on the remote to turn the volume down a few clicks. “Go back to sleep.”

As tempting as that was, his brain had already semi-engaged, analysing everything as he had since that conversation with Molly.

He felt comfortable. The fact that he could fall asleep with his head resting in John’s lap was evidence enough of this. It’s not something he would ever even contemplate doing with other people. In fact, he made sure never to fall asleep in the presence of anyone. So why was John different? Why did he feel this level of comfort, safety, and most bewilderingly, affection? It was becoming problematic, to the point where Sherlock hadn’t been on a night on the town since John had moved in, and that was most unlike him. Even his own brother used to call him promiscuous. But he hadn’t felt the need for the outlet of another body, flesh against his own. He wanted John. He’d wanted him almost from the moment he saw him. Even when he had attempted to train his brain to reject the possibility, his libido had not cooperated. So what did this all add up to? Could he be capable of a romantic dalliance? For John, who was not looking for anything else, particularly with him, could he do it?

Of course, the only way to test the hypothesis would be to experiment. And oh, how he wished to experiment on the man he was leaning against. It would be simple to just turn his head and press a kiss against his hipbones, rake his fingertips under John’s shirt to feel warm skin.

In his dream-like state he didn’t realise his thoughts were becoming actions until he heard John’s sharp intake of breath.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

Sherlock sat up slowly and looked into John’s eyes. There was hesitation there, a touch of wariness, but underlying that was curiosity, want, and it blazed a trail down his spine and settled warmly in his gut.

Sherlock didn’t want to speak, it had gotten him into trouble one too many times and he couldn’t risk spooking John, not when he finally seemed to be open to Sherlock’s actions. Instead, he moved to straddle John’s thighs. He could sense John watching his every move, could hear the cadence of his breath speed up, so it wasn’t a surprise to see John surge up at the same time as Sherlock lowered his head.

John’s lips felt soft against his own, but good. So good. Everything Sherlock had been expecting and yet more. He was used to the adrenaline rush when kissing someone new. Used to the excitement of testing and tasting and discovering, the feel of unmapped territory. But this was John. John, and the rush came with the addition of goosebumps and sparks flying out from wherever he touched him, wherever John touch Sherlock. It felt amazing, it felt inevitable, and Sherlock wondered if he would wander through life never experiencing anything like this moment ever again.

A moan escaped his throat when his tongue pushed against John’s and that seemed to be the thing to douse John with cold water. He shoved Sherlock away with a hand to the chest, and dammit, Sherlock knew his voice would be his undoing.

“What the hell?” John said, his eyes tight with what could only be anger. His breathing continued to come rapidly and a red flush was staining his cheeks, so it was obvious the kiss wasn’t entirely unwelcome. “Seriously, what the hell? You know I’m seeing someone!”

“Hardly. You’ve been on three dates and not one of them has even come close to the past thirty seconds we have experienced.”

“That’s not the point!” John said, dislodging Sherlock and getting up from the couch. “We’ve talked about this! You said you were not going to do this anymore.”

“But you want it! You want it as much as I do!” And Sherlock was confident of that. From all of his observations over the past week he was positive John wanted this.

“But I need more!” John countered, not denying. “You know this! I’m done with one-nights and instability. I want someone who wants me always, not just when it’s convenient to them! Can you honestly tell me that person is you?”

Sherlock’s silence probably spoke volumes.

“Don’t screw with my head like this, Sherlock. I don’t deserve it.”

Sherlock got up and started pacing. “I don’t know what I am anymore!”

“Well I do.” John’s tone was strong, confident. “You’re someone who is used to getting sex on the regular and you haven’t been out in a while so you’re looking for a distraction. Do me a favour, go out and sleep with some random so you stop targeting me.”

With that, he stormed towards the stairs and slammed the door to his bedroom, leaving Sherlock to stew. He picked up John’s empty tea mug and threw it against the wall.

It didn’t clear his head.

***

The next few days were awkward. John had the day off work after the couch incident and succeeded in avoiding him all day. It rankled Sherlock more than he thought it would. He’d been known to piss someone off deliberately just to get a few days of silence. From John it was infuriating. Fortunately, he had deigned to get some words from him today, although it was still stilted and mostly revolved around product placement of his date’s vibrators. How could he continue to go out with her after that kiss they shared? That one kiss before John put him right back in his place.

Jaw clenched and with a sense of determination, Sherlock strode towards the pub. John was right, this infatuation was not a relationship. Sherlock didn’t do relationships and cursed himself for ever feeling confused over his feelings for John. It was the lack of sex and nothing more, and the sooner he got some the better off they would all be.

He was wearing his tightest pants and a fitted black t-shirt and he was going to go to the pub he always had the most success with in the past. He would find someone a few inches shorter, broader and blonder than himself, and he was going to get this ridiculous crush out of his system. Then he could move on with his life of bedding whoever took his fancy, John could marry Sarah, and they could remain the best of friends. Until John decided to open up a practice with Sarah and work in medicine again, which he was obviously planning on doing soon anyway, leaving John without a friend and without a flatmate.

He wasn’t too far from his destination when he felt his mobile vibrating in his pocket. He pulled it out, ready to send it to his voice mail when he noticed the sender was the The Vibe’s security company.

“The front register alarm has been activated,” they said when he answered the call.

“What can you tell from CCTV?”

“Not much. There is a man standing behind the counter, but he seems calm and whoever he is talking to is sheltered by a pillar. Should we send someone to investigate?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, his evening would have to be delayed by a few minutes.

“No need, I’m only five minutes from the shop. If I haven’t called you back in fifteen minutes, send someone then.”

No doubt it would just be John and Sarah anyway, and really, he did not want to know what heterosexual courting activity they were up to.

Sherlock changed direction and headed for work.

***

Sarah arrived at the store at 6:30PM. John let her in via the staff entrance and took her hand, leading her to the front of the shop.

There, in the centre of the store’s main entrance, was the display of Sarah’s sex toys.

Her grin stretched to her eyes and she took a deep breath. “This is so exciting.”

“What do you think?” John grinned. Sarah’s mood was infectious.

“As much as I hoped, as much as I knew I had a good product, I had no idea that I would one day see them on a shelf.”

“We’ve commenced an online marketing campaign for them as well. I expect them to sell well.”

John always thought that Sarah looked prettiest when she smiled, and right then, she looked positively radiant. Unfortunately, there didn’t seem room in his thoughts for anyone but Sherlock and that awfully timed brilliant kiss they shared. He couldn’t get it out of his head.

“Our reservation is for seven o’clock. I might just go powder my nose before we leave.”

John squatted behind the counter and tidied up the bags and other items while Sarah was off in the bathroom. Technically, this was date number four, and John was fairly certain it was going to be the last. They were headed dangerously into friends territory, and while he would normally try and put an end to that, he did know that he was the reason why. He and his stupid feelings for his stupid flatmate.

It was ridiculous, John wanted a relationship, Sherlock didn’t. If John ever gave in he knew what the consequences would be; he’d wake up the next morning to an empty bed, and they would carry on as if nothing had ever happened. Sherlock would slowly grow bored with John and they’d go their separate ways, John holding onto the ludicrous hope that one day they might be more and Sherlock moving onto other people who took his interest.

He liked Sarah, he did, and he hoped they could continue to be friends. He knew they could not be anything else.

Maybe he needed to take some of his own advice. Before he’d met Sarah, his desires were leaning toward the male form. He was aware now that it was due to his growing attraction toward Sherlock, not that he would have thought that then. Maybe what he needed was to find a tall, lean wanker for a bit of a fling, get the urge out of his system, and when he met someone like Sarah again, he’d be better positioned to give her all of his attention like he should be now.

He heard a shuffle behind him and went to turn around, about to ask Sarah if she was ready for dinner. He stopped in his tracks when a voice an octave deeper than his date’s registered in his ears. A voice with a slight Irish lilt. The store had been closed for hours and it was obvious Sherlock was nowhere in sight. There was no way he was there for purposes less than nefarious.

Using the reflexes ingrained from his stint in the army, he brushed his fingers against the distress alarm and stood slowly from his crouch.

“Why is he so fascinated with you, Doctor Watson? Medium level intelligence, generic looks.” John raised his hands in surrender and slowly started to turn to face him, not wanting to make any sudden moves. “And you’re such a predictable little puppy, still working late into the night to please your master. Of course I was going to find you here. You make things too easy.”

When John had finally made his 180-degree turn, he found himself face to face with Jim Moriarty.

And staring right down the barrel of a gun.

Chapter Text

From the previous chapter:

He heard a shuffle behind him and went to turn around, about to ask Sarah if she was ready for dinner. He stopped in his tracks when a voice an octave deeper than his date’s registered in his ears. A voice with a slight Irish lilt. The store had been closed for hours and it was obvious Sherlock was nowhere in sight. There was no way he was there for purposes less than nefarious.

Using the reflexes ingrained from his stint in the army, he brushed his fingers against the distress alarm and stood slowly from his crouch.

“Why is he so fascinated with you, Doctor Watson? Medium level intelligence, generic looks.” John raised his hands in surrender and slowly started to turn to face him, not wanting to make any sudden moves. “And you’re such a predictable little puppy, still working late into the night to please your master. Of course I was going to find you here. You make things too easy.”

When John had finally made his 180-degree turn, he found himself face to face with Jim Moriarty.

And staring right down the barrel of a gun.

NEXT CHAPTER…

Fortunately, John was no stranger to violent confrontation. Unfortunately, he was also no stranger to being shot, and his military trained mind was at war with his post-traumatic stress. He knew what he had to do; the security company should have someone on the scene within ten minutes of him activating the alarm, so he needed to delay Jim for as long as possible.

“I have no idea what Sherlock finds interesting about me,” John started, voice calm. “But he’s keeping me around for some reason. I haven’t questioned it so I cannot provide you with a response.”

“He told me two years ago that he didn’t do relationships, that he never saw the same person twice. Yet with you, he breaks all of his own rules. You are nowhere near his level of intelligence, you couldn’t challenge him. He’ll grow bored of you in no time.”

John’s jaw clenched. Moriarty was hitting a nerve, something he was no doubt aware of. It was exactly everything John had been telling himself as to why he shouldn’t even try for a relationship with Sherlock, because what did he have to offer London’s most easily bored man?

Jim’s facial expression slackened. “Oh, the puppy is aware of his short comings. Could it be there’s already trouble in paradise?”

John kept his jaw tight and his mouth shut. The man liked to hear his own voice more than Sherlock did, and the longer he kept him talking the longer John had to scheme an escape without getting shot in the process. Judging by the wild look in Jim’s eyes, any shot discharged from that firearm would be fatal. But even if it didn’t kill him, John honestly didn’t know if he had the strength to recover from a wound like that again.

“You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know anything about us.”

“On the contrary. I know you’re an invalided army doctor who served in Afghanistan. Ambushed and shot in the left shoulder and went through four months of counselling to heal your PTSD and psychosomatic limp. You haven’t been back to see the lovely Doctor Ella since you commenced working here. Is it because you found her tedious, after encountering the great minds of the Holmes brothers?”

No wonder the man was infatuated with Sherlock, their methods of deduction were eerily similar.

“How did you know all of that?”

“One has their ways.” Jim smirked. “Imagine Sherlock and I together. We’d be unstoppable.”

John wanted to wipe the smile off Jim’s smug face. The thought of he and Sherlock together – the fact that they had been, once upon a time – caused John’s fist to clench. His blood pressure was increasing.

“Sherlock’s more intelligent than you could ever be.” He was probably playing with fire, but he couldn’t help himself. He was tired of people making assumptions about Sherlock, tired of hiding his feelings for the man. And if these were to be his last moments, he was not giving Jim-bloody-Moriarty the satisfaction of not biting back. “You think he’d become bored of me? At least I don’t think I could possibly be as smart as him. He must laugh at you constantly, thinking you’d ever be up to par with him. He’d cast you aside in five minutes. In fact, isn’t that exactly what he did?”

Moriarty’s hand struck out and John braced himself for the bullet that was on its way. But Jim obviously wasn’t through playing yet, and struck him across the temple with the gun instead. The force of the blow knocked him backwards, off his feet and narrowly missing smacking his head on the counter. As his back hit the floor, John felt his brain reverberate in his skull and the sting of the cut where the gun had sliced him open.

It took a few minutes to collect his thoughts, Jim standing over him and still sprouting his monologue. John was torn, so he played at being unconscious while deciding his next move. Did he try to kick Jim’s feet out from under him? Try to take him by surprise and knock the gun out of his hand? John was fairly certain he could overpower Jim in hand-to-hand combat, but while Jim had the firearm, John was at a severe disadvantage.

Before he could make his move, John heard a whoosh of breath coming from Jim and slitted his eyes open to find he was no longer standing over him.

Jim’s laugh could only be called maniacal. “Oh look, the knight in shining armour. Just in the nick of time.”

Sherlock gave him a shove.

“What have you done to John?” Sherlock demanded, voice deep and aggressive.

“It’s so pathetic,” Jim cooed, throwing a punch with the hand not holding the gun. Sherlock was able to block it. “Look at you, resorting to violence. He’s dumbed you down, Sherlock. You should have stuck with me. We’d be unstoppable.”

“Nobody hurts John!” Sherlock dove towards Jim.

The ensuing scuffle involved punches and grunts, each man wrestling the other, trying to get the upper hand, neither of the men noticing that John was awake and ready to intervene.

Sherlock managed to knock the gun away, but his look of satisfaction disappeared when Moriarty flipped them over and grabbed around Sherlock’s neck with both hands.

“It wasn’t supposed to come to this,” Jim said sadly, legs straddling Sherlock. “You were supposed to quit this town with me. Come abroad. Take down the world, piece by piece.”

Sherlock’s gasps for breath spurred John into action. He sat up, dove for the gun, and called out “Sherlock!” in warning. Sherlock’s eyes caught John’s, relief flickering through them.

John raised the gun, levelled it at what he could see of Moriarty’s upper thigh, and fired.

Jim’s cries drowned out Sherlock’s heavy breaths as hands were no long closed in on his throat.

“You shot me!”

“No shit,” John replied. He kept the gun trained on Jim while Sherlock ran to get five different types of handcuffs and restraints from the shelves. He wasn’t taking any chances.

“Careful!” Jim exclaimed, pain breaking through, as Sherlock roughly slid him along the floor to a pillar and tied him up with ropes, stocks and handcuffs. Once he was properly secured, John handed the gun over and ran to get the medical kit. He cut through Jim’s trousers and took no care whatsoever in applying gauze to the gunshot wound and wrapping it with a bandage. “Ow, ow, ow!”

“Funnily enough, not feeling very sympathetic right now,” John said, pressing harder against the wound.

Sherlock looked across at him as he was putting the supplies away. “You’re hurt.”

With some of the adrenaline now dissipated, John could once again feel the cut at his temple and touched a fingertip to it. “It’s fine, superficial.”

Sherlock closed the distance between them and grabbed either side of John’s face, taking a closer look.

“He made you bleed.”

“He made me bleed more!” Moriarty said in between his groaning. “My leg is fucking killing me!”

They both ignored him.

“John,” Sherlock said reverently, still holding onto his face. “When I saw you laying there, I—“

“Me too,” John replied, mirroring Sherlock’s actions and running his fingertips along the finger marks on his neck. “Sherlock, I. I don’t—“

Sherlock leaned forward and crushed his lips to John’s. It was just like the kiss from earlier in the week, but more desperate, more needy, and neither of them wasted time devouring the other.

“This was not how it was supposed to go!”

Moriarty’s cries and the sound of approaching sirens went unnoticed by the two men who continued to partake in each other. John’s lips moved from Sherlock’s and down to his neck, kissing at the marks made at the hands of Jim, until Sherlock grabbed his face again to bring their mouths together.

Sherlock’s mouth was hot and John’s tongue greedy, mapping every tooth, every ridge, playing with Sherlock’s own tongue. He used a hand to tug him closer, to feel Sherlock’s body against his own. Blood was running down his face and Jim was still moaning about his leg, but all John could concentrate on was Sherlock’s warmth, their hearts beating against each other’s. Proof of life.

They only separated when the front door was barged open. A team of London’s finest surrounded them, guns drawn, and, after a well-timed insult, Sherlock let them know who the actual criminal was.

Jim’s face had gone considerably paler since John had patched him up, and he didn’t put up much of a fight with police. One of the officers moved outside to call the paramedics in.

“You should get the medics to look at the cut on your face,” Sherlock said.

John shook his head. “I’ll be okay.”

“How about Sarah?”

His eyes widened. “Oh God, Sarah!”

He rushed toward the bathrooms but found Sarah looking on from the office door. She closed the distance and embraced him.

“Are you okay?” John asked.

“I’m fine,” she said, letting go of him. “Shaken, but fine. I called the police.”

“He didn’t get to you before me? He didn’t hurt you?”

“I don’t think he knew I was here. John, I thought he was going to--”

“He didn’t. It’s okay,” he said, smoothing a hand over her hair.

“Thank God Sherlock arrived when he did.”

John couldn’t agree with that statement more.

“I texted my sister. She’s going to come get me.”

“Are you sure? I could—“

Sarah held up a hand. “I think I’ve had enough excitement for one night.”

It was understandable.

“I’m so sorry you’re involved in this, but the police will want to speak with you and get a statement.”

“Of course.” She nodded, surveying the scene before them; police, paramedics, Sherlock. “He’s something else, isn’t he?”

John gave a wry smile, not needing to ask who she was referring to. “You could describe him as that.”

“He must care about you a great deal,” she said softly, and John realised what she must have seen.

“Sarah, I—“

She held a finger to his lips. “He risked his own life to save yours. Tell me he would do that for anyone else?”

John thought briefly of Mycroft and Mrs Hudson, and knew he was in illustrious company. There wouldn’t be many.

“I didn’t have to see the force with which he kissed you to know how you each feel.” John went to apologise, but again she stopped him. “We weren’t really going anywhere, it’s okay. Take me to the police and then go be with Sherlock.”

John leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Tell me we’ll still be friends?”

“We haven’t really been anything else. But give me a few days.”

***

“Is she okay?” Sherlock’s tone was cold, lacking the emotion he had shown not even five minutes before.

“Shaken, but she’ll be fine. She’s tough. Her sister is coming to pick her up.”

Sherlock gave him a considering look. “You’re not going to escort her home?”

He shook his head, trying, and failing, to keep the emotion out of his voice. “I need to be here with you.”

Sherlock’s shoulders dropped and he curled an arm around him, dropping a kiss to his unscarred temple. John found himself hanging onto him, trying to get as close as possible.

It was after midnight by the time they’d been checked over by the paramedics, dealt with the store security and been interviewed by the police. Luckily, CCTV caught most of the incident, with Sherlock, John and Sarah able to fill in the blanks. Mycroft had shown up during the night, and after the customary brotherly tete-a-tete, informed them that he had organised for people to come in the next day to repair any damage and fix the store up for reopening.

The cab ride home was quiet. Sherlock kept his hand on John’s thigh while John stayed snuggled into his side. The adrenaline had worn off but there was a thrum beneath his skin.

John had feared for his life more that evening than he ever had in the deserts of Afghanistan. Feared for the lives of others more than he ever feared for his comrades. But they were there. They were alive. And it felt like it was time to take chances. To take what was nearly taken from him.

The second the flat door shut behind them, Sherlock shoved him against it, pressing his body against John’s and kissing him with nothing short of determination. John surrendered to it as Sherlock’s hands skimmed beneath John’s shirt, touching skin, thumbs running over his chest. John dug under Sherlock’s skin-tight t-shirt, finding warm flesh and held him closer, not wanting to let go.

He needed this. He needed to feel close to Sherlock. He needed to feel alive.

“Sherlock,” John said in a breath between kisses. “Take me to bed.”

Sherlock ripped his head back, eyes as shiny as his lips. He looked as conflicted as he did aroused.

“John—“

“I know,” John nodded. Sherlock’s position hadn’t changed. Sherlock didn’t do relationships. But John was going into this with his eyes wide open and by God did he want this. No more denial. “I need you. Do you need me?”

Sherlock answered by pressing his lips harder against John’s, tongue sweeping and caressing while his hands worked up John’s jumper, only breaking to lift it over his head.

“Do I need you?” Sherlock said as he raised his own t-shirt over his head and John pulled at the buttons of the shirt he was wearing under his jumper, revealing smooth skin. “Are you normally this stupid or did Jim destroy some brain cells?”

John trailed his hand down to Sherlock’s crotch and gave it a squeeze. “Big words from someone whose blood flow is concentrated on one area.”

They stumbled to Sherlock’s room where John proceeded to throw Sherlock on the mattress and climbed on top of him, continuing to kiss him at the pace set while he was pressed up against their front door.

Sherlock let him lead for a while, then flipped them over so it was John’s bare back against the world’s softest sheets. He hovered above him, dark curls falling against John’s forehead. Sherlock pulled at John’s lips, trying to slow the tempo, but John needed more and grabbed at his neck, trying to take over again. Sherlock pulled back.

“What’s the rush?” Sherlock said in a soft whisper against his ear.

What’s the rush? John thought. We could have died tonight!

Sherlock’s hand travelled over John’s scarred shoulder, and down to rest over his heart.

“I need to devour you,” Sherlock continued, with a calmness that belied the hardness John felt against his hip. “But I need to capture every piece that proves to me that you’re here. That you’re alive.”

With that, Sherlock’s head dropped until he’d captured John’s lips in a warm, languid kiss. John lost himself in it, trying to attune his breathing and heart rate to the pace that Sherlock was setting.

He was right, as usual. As feverish as John’s desire was, the need for them to take their time, to be as close as possible for as long as possible was what he needed most. Maybe what they both needed.

They took their time exploring; fingers, lips and tongue touching every ridge, every angle, every joint, until John thought he would be able to tell Sherlock’s body blindfolded. Until the need to be closer got too much.

“Come on,” he said, pulling Sherlock up from licking at his inner thighs. Sherlock leaned over him and kissed him on the lips, and John wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s waist and rocked. “I need you.”

Sherlock groaned in a way that John had never heard before, but wanted to hear again. He reached across into the top drawer beside his bed and took out a condom and lube.

“Can I?” Sherlock asked with something akin to reverence, and John nodded.

He closed his eyes and breathed through the breach of Sherlock’s fingers.

“You feel magnificent,” Sherlock said, touching him with expert precision, working him open in a way that felt intuitive. Like Sherlock was deducing him, but this time for reasons John could only classify as good.

If John thought Sherlock’s fingers felt amazing, that was nothing compared to his cock.

“Oh God, John,” Sherlock breathed and John’s legs locked around his waist once more. Their eyes held and John could see every hint of pleasure pass through as he slowly slid inside him.

“God, yes,” John agreed, rocking down to get more of Sherlock where he needed him most.

Eventually they got a rhythm going, John never taking his eyes off the man above him. Sherlock was equally staring like he couldn’t believe he had John in his bed. The only time their eyes strayed from the other was if a wave of pleasure was particularly intense or if Sherlock leaned down to kiss him again, and again, and again.

Sweat was forming at Sherlock’s temples, his mouth a wide O of pleasure. John didn’t think he’d seen him any more beautiful than right then, naked and primal and taking such good care of him.

“So gorgeous,” Sherlock murmured against his neck, sucking wet marks into it. “You feel so alive.”

“You feel so good, don’t stop.”

“Can’t stop, can’t ever stop,” Sherlock agreed, pumping his hips harder, hitting against his prostate. “You’re perfect, so perfect.”

John closed his eyes as the pleasure started to pool warm and low in his belly.

“Sherlock,” he said in warning.

“Look at me.”

John wound his arms around Sherlock’s neck and pulled him in for another kiss before resting their foreheads together while Sherlock’s hips rocked harder and faster into him.

Sherlock let out a shout as the first wave of his orgasm hit him. John clenched around him and rubbed his cock against the smooth plane of his stomach, seeking friction of his own.

“Come all over me,” Sherlock said while he was doing the same inside of John, his words enough to tip John over the edge.

Sherlock looked magnificent when he came. He was magnificent. And the way he looked at John as their shudders subsided, like he’d given Sherlock something private and special, something to be treasured, tingled all the way down to his toes.

A few minutes later, after a perfunctory clean-up, John was just on the edge of sleep with his flatmates arm strewn around his waist when he heard Sherlock whisper, “Why didn’t you tell me it would feel like that?”

The next morning, when he woke up alone, the other side of the bed long gone cold, he couldn’t help the stab of disappointment.

***

Before finally deciding to get up, John gave himself a good talking to. He knew what he was getting himself into the night before. He had to be at peace with having a one night stand with his best friend. It was nothing more than that, Sherlock had always made that clear, and John had to face him and the fact that no emotion other than desperation played a part in what had happened the night before.

He walked into the lounge room in his pants and threw his discarded shirt over his shoulders. He found Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, wrapped in a dressing gown and pounding his keyboard with a vigour he usually reserved for insulting people. He didn’t look up as John walked past him, didn’t acknowledge the cup of hot tea he placed next to his laptop, and didn’t make any gestures when John announced he was going for a walk.

He was just regular, self-absorbed Sherlock. Like last night had never happened. Just as he always told John it would be. And as much as he tried to convince himself otherwise, John really wasn’t okay with it.

It was a crisp morning. John could see the condensation as he breathed in an out like his therapist taught him when he first returned from Afghanistan, trying to clear his head.

Last night was, well, it was incredible. Downright scary at first, and then absolute perfection. Which was why he never wanted to do this with Sherlock, because he knew deep down that he couldn’t check his feelings at the door. He knew that he was going to become addicted to him the same way his father was addicted to gambling and his sister addicted to alcohol. He knew it wouldn’t be good for him, he knew he was going to want another hit of that body. Again, and again, and again. And if the morning proved anything, it was that he was right all along. Sherlock got what he was after, and just like that John was out of his system.

He didn’t know how long he’d wandered for, but when he looked up he noticed that he was out the front of Sarah’s building. He hesitated a few moments before sucking in a breath and pressing the buzzer to her apartment. He rocked on his feet until she answered.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be working today,” John said when she met him at the front door.

“I called in sick, moved my patients around. Wasn’t much in the mood today, funnily enough.”

She was wearing track pants and a baggy jumper, face devoid of makeup and hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. She ushered him into her lounge room.

“I know you said to give you a few days, but I was walking past and wanted to see how you were,” John said as he took a seat on the couch.

Sarah gave a faint smile as she took the chair opposite.

“You look like you got as much sleep as I did,” Sarah observed. John tried hard not to blush, but he knew it was a lost cause. She raised an eyebrow. “But apparently for different reasons.”

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about that. When I asked you out I honestly didn’t think anything like that was ever going to happen between Sherlock and me.”

“I know you didn’t. You wouldn’t. But something did.” It wasn’t a question.

“It did.”

“So why aren’t you there with him now?”

“You know Sherlock. Barely acknowledged my existence this morning, let alone what happened between us last night.”

He didn’t want pity, but she gave him a sympathetic smile anyway and something in her eyes softened. She then got up, went to her freezer and came back to the couch with a tub of ice cream and two spoons. She took a seat next to him and draped a blanket over their legs before opening the tub and handing him a spoon.

“Sure-fire cure. I’ve got Notting Hill in the DVD player, that always cheers me up.”

John gave her a grateful smile and settled in.

***

Five hours later, John’s phone beeped.

Where are you? I’ve looked all over the flat but obviously you are not here - SH

John rolled his eyes. For all that Sherlock prided himself on his skills of observation, he sure was terrible at multi-tasking when his attention was firmly elsewhere.

Mrs Hudson said you left hours ago. Where are you? – SH

I told you when I was leaving! I’m visiting a friend. I’ll be home later.

But your presence is required now – SH
Are you on your way home yet? – SH
It appears we are out of milk – SH

“You’re being summonsed?” Sarah asked.

“Who else would text me three times in a row.” John rolled his eyes. “I probably should get out of your hair anyway, let you enjoy the rest of your day off.”

“I enjoyed it.” Sarah smiled. “We should do it again sometime.”

John hoped that she wasn’t just saying that to be polite. However things ended between them, he enjoyed her company. “You mean that?”

She nodded, and the grin reached her eyes. “I honestly do. Call me next week and we’ll do lunch.”

“I’ll do that,” John said, getting up from the couch. Sarah walked him to the front door.

“John, Sherlock may be emotionally stunted and impulsive, but he isn’t a fool. And he would be foolish to let what you have slide.”

He gave her a hug.

“As much as I hope you’re correct, I won’t hold my breath.”

***

“Where have you been?” Sherlock demanded as soon as John opened the door.

He ignored the tone and walked through to the kitchen to put the groceries away. Just seeing Sherlock sitting there in his pants and dressing gown, exactly the way he’d left him that morning, was enough for the disappointment of waking up alone to come flooding back. He had to get over this.

“There was a long line at Tesco’s.”

“You were out for hours.”

“I was,” he confirmed, but knew this wasn’t going to be enough of an explanation for Sherlock. “Not that you noticed.”

“You only had your mobile and wallet with you, so you weren’t expecting to be out for too long. You said you were at a friend’s place, but which friend? Mike Stamford would be working today. Mycroft’s too busy running the country and ensuring all the work is done to let us open the store tomorrow. Plus, there is fine white hair on your trousers so someone with a cat.” He drummed his fingers against his laptop while he thought, then the edges of his mouth turned downwards. “Ah, you went to Sarah’s.”

“I did,” John said, and the look on Sherlock’s face made him want to clarify. “We had some things we needed to sort out between us, which we’ve done. We’re going to stay friends.”

“Friends?”

“You know? That phenomenon where two people like each other’s company and catch up occasionally, but not in any romantic sense?”

“I thought--,” Sherlock paused. “Never mind.”

John snorted and shook his head, annoyed and feeling rejected enough to bite. What business of Sherlock’s was it anyway?

“Not all of us can separate emotion from sex, you know. Not all of us feel the need to distance ourselves.”

The look on Sherlock’s face was slightly hurt and considering, but he remained silent. John took a deep breath.

“What did you want me back for?”

Sherlock’s facial expression didn’t change, but he gathered up a stack of print-outs from the table and handed them to him.

“Here. I need you to read this while I shower.”

He was still annoyed enough at Sherlock to want to rebel against any demand he threw at him, but the vulnerable look he was attempting to mask made John accept the papers.

It was Sherlock’s manuscript, the same stories John had read before but with a difference. A major difference. Most had been re-written.

It wasn’t long before he was as absorbed in them as he was when Sherlock had been food-poisoned. This time, though, he knew what to expect with the storylines, knew that he would be reading erotica. What he wasn’t expecting was to be drawn into the characters like he was.

John’s heart rate increased with every page he turned. It was much racier, much more erotic. It was as if he had taken every piece of advice John and his editor had suggested, and wrote with his heart. John was gripped entirely.

In fact, the only thing that broke his concentration was Sherlock walking back into the lounge room, dressing gown cinched around his waist and towel drying his hair.

“Thoughts?” he asked, the slight hitch in his voice betraying the calm he was trying to project.

John looked up from the pages, and it was like he was seeing Sherlock in a new light. He had no idea he had this in him.

“It’s brilliant. No, really. It’s amazing. It was good before, but adding in the depth to the characters and situations has made it absolutely compelling. This chapter with the infatuated drag queen is amazing. I can feel how much she cares.” He read through to the end of the page before looking up at Sherlock again. “I take it the writer’s block has disappeared?”

Sherlock’s smile almost reached his eyes. “I woke up at 5:00AM with a jolt of inspiration. I’ve been writing ever since.”

“Congratulations then, I guess.”

“You think I’m on the write track, then?”

“I think you are on the verge of a best seller.”

Sherlock looked giddy at the praise. “I’ll get back to it then.”

So once again, John found himself ignored as Sherlock lost himself in his laptop.

Once again, John tried to tell himself he was okay with that.

***

A few hours later, John switched off the tele and rose from the couch.

“Well, I guess I’ll leave you to it.”

Sherlock, for once, looked up from his computer. “Where are you going?”

“Bed. It’s been a long day.”

Sherlock turned back to his keyboard. “Give me ten minutes to finish this chapter and I’ll be there too.”

John stopped in his tracks and turned around.

“You’ll what?”

“Bed. You are sleeping in my room again tonight, are you not?”

John’s brow furrowed and he tried not to let nervous anticipation and excitement bubble up too much until he got clarification.

“Your bed? You mean, you want me to—“

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’ve just read half of my book, seeing how I added emotion and feeling and intensity to it all. You must know that it is all because of you. Of course I want you to sleep next to me tonight. How can I be more clear?”

John shook his head. “You could actually say it.”

“You should be able to tell from the fact that I woke up inspired after sleeping with you last night. You should be able to tell through every word I’ve written.”

John threw his hands up. “You’ve told me that emotion is irrelevant to sex. You’ve told me since the day we met that you don’t sleep with the same person more than once. How am I to know I’m the exception to the rule?”

“Because you’re the exception to all of them!”

That made John freeze. Was he really saying what he thought he was?

He watched Sherlock rise from his chair and stride toward him. He closed the distance and lowered his lips to John’s. It was gentle, languid, and if affection was what he was trying to convey to John, he was certainly successful.

“I’ve never been anyone’s boyfriend before,” Sherlock started. “I don’t know that I’ll be particularly good at it. But I’m willing to try if you are.”

John looked into his eyes and saw nothing but sincerity and maybe a hint of hope.

“I can’t be some experiment in monogamy.”

“You won’t be. You aren’t. I haven’t wanted anyone else in months. You’ve been my focus. You still are.” He kissed down John’s neck. “Truth is, I’ve never wanted to be with anyone more than once. But John, I would very much like to take you to bed again.”

John smiled, warmth rushing to his cheeks from his toes. “Then forget about the rest of your chapter. Let’s just go.”

***

For once, Sherlock was still asleep when John woke up. He wasn’t surprised that he was tired that morning. In search of more lube, John had come across Sherlock’s Irene-gifted collection of silk scarves. Jesus Christ, did they get Sherlock wound up. For hours. John felt like he owed Irene a giant present of her own.

But someone had to open the store, especially after it had been closed all day the day before, so he slipped out of Sherlock’s hold, slid his pants and Sherlock’s dressing gown on, and padded out to the kitchen to make tea.

“I see my brother has finally come to his senses.”

John started and put a hand to his chest.

“For goodness sakes, Mycroft. Ever heard of knocking?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “My presence is not usually met with such scorn.”

“You’ve never ambushed me at seven in the morning.”

“That is accurate, however I thought you might like some news on Mr Moriarty. Or should I say, Mr Brook.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Mr Brook?”

“His real name.”

His curiosity was piqued enough to forgive the almost-heart attack of Mycroft’s arrival. “Let me put some tea on and wake Sherlock. He’ll want to know this and I know how you Holmes’ hate to repeat yourselves.”

He flicked the kettle on and disappeared back into the bedroom.

“Sherlock.” He shook at his shoulder. “You need to get up.”

“No,” he grumbled, tugging on John’s arm so he fell back on top of him. “Much more fun in here.”

“Your brother’s in the lounge room.”

Sherlock opened his eyes at that and held John closer. “He can’t have you.”

“He’s not after me. He wants to tell us about Jim Moriarty.”

“Ugh.” Sherlock’s hold relaxed. “He is going to be insufferable about this.”

“What do you mean?”

“For Mycroft to be involved and calling in here before going to the office, there has to be something about Jim that I’ve missed.”

John rolled off of him so he could get up. Sherlock ripped the sheet from the bed and wrapped it around himself before marching out to see his brother.

“Have your gloat and get out of here,” Sherlock told him, slumping into the chair opposite.

Mycroft looked up and down. “Really, you didn’t have to go to so much trouble in your attire.”

“Are you here to criticise or are you here to impart information?”

“The latter, I guess.” Mycroft put down the newspaper he was reading. “But you do make the former so easy.”

John rolled his eyes and sat on the arm of Sherlock’s chair.

“You said something about him actually being a Mr Brook?”

“Yes.” Mycroft nodded. “I thought you’d want to know that the case has been taken out of the hands of the local authorities and has become a government issue.”

“So he’s not Jim Moriarty?” John clarified.

Mycroft shook his head. “We believe Jim Moriarty passed away a few years ago. Probably at the hand of Richard Brook, who is wanted in three countries in relation to murder, blackmail and espionage. He’s done a very good job of hiding in plain sight. Until he became obsessed with you, my dear brother.”

John’s hand crept up the back of Sherlock’s neck and gave it a squeeze. He enjoyed having the freedom of a reassuring touch. Something that wouldn’t have been possible a few days before.

“So you’re telling me a super villain was not only residing in our city, but under your nose, and you didn’t notice until he took a particular interest in me?” Sherlock started, his eyes boring into his brother as they did when he was deducing something. “You’ve been following him since he began stalking me, and his true identity remained unfound all because he assumed a pseudonym? You’re getting sloppy in your old age.”

“On the contrary, we’ve known of his true identity for the past six months, we were merely waiting for him to slip and be charged with something under our jurisdiction. It’s a rather delicate matter, a lot more involved than I can discuss at this time.”

John was horrified. “So you leave Sherlock in danger in the meantime?”

“With a trained armed services soldier in his midst, I hardly thought it would be considered careless. Besides, we have him in our custody now, and expect him to be extradited within the week.”

“That’s a relief,” John said. His dreams were going to be haunted by the look of those eyes, wild and terrifying, as the gun was waved in John’s face. Great, it was just what he needed, nightmares to complement his war-ravaged dreams.

Mycroft stood and grabbed his umbrella.

“Well, I best be off to work. And I believe one of you will need to open the store? Our trading figures will be down from yesterday’s forced closure. And you do know how unhappy the shareholders get when projected figures are not met.”

“You’re the only shareholder,” John said.

“Quite.”

Sherlock had a glint in his eye that could only mean trouble. He tugged at John’s arm until he fell across his lap.

“Anderson’s always wanted to run the store for a day. I think today we should let him. I’ve got a feeling we may be otherwise occupied.”

Mycroft sighed and looked to the ceiling.

“My team have only just managed to clean everything up from Brook’s overenthusiastic warning off of John the other night. One day in Anderson’s care and the store will be smouldering.”

“Go run the country, leave the small little sex shop to me.” Sherlock ran a hand through John’s hair and bent his head to kiss him. As far as Sherlock’s dismissive actions went, John was rather fond of this one.

“We’re not really leaving Anderson in charge, are we?” John said when they came up for air.

“Of course not.” Sherlock huffed. “Well, maybe for ten minutes. Fancy a shower, Dr Watson?”

John smirked. “Maybe half an hour then?”

“An hour in Anderson’s care should be fine.”

***

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

They both heard Anderson’s voice come from the door of the stock room, but neither were willing to break the kiss to respond to him.

“This is a place of work! Don’t you have a bedroom you can use for this?”

John was pushed up against one of the shelving units, one leg wrapped around Sherlock’s hips to bring them closer. There were definitely advantages to sleeping with your boss, and even two weeks down the track it hadn’t lost it’s novelty.

He took a hand from Sherlock’s back long enough to give Anderson the finger, then let his concentration wander back completely to the feel of his best friend, his boyfriend, all around him.

As his tongue caressed Sherlock’s and sparks ran up and down his entire body, John thought that they’d have to get Mycroft an extra large Christmas present that year. For all that Sherlock despised his brother meddling in the store, it was Mycroft’s meddling that brought them together. Although they both agreed that they would not be admitting that to Mycroft’s face. According to Sherlock, the posh git was insufferable enough as it was. The last thing they needed was something else he could hold over his brother.

Saying that, Sherlock telling Mycroft that he looked as if he was losing weight the other day probably tipped him off to the fact that he was somewhat responsible for his brother’s current state of happiness.

Either way, running into Mike Stamford, not being intimidated by the Holmes brothers, and joining The Vibe turned out to be the best life decision John had ever made.

Chapter Text

Eight months later

 

It was a little after 9:00PM when weary feet plodded up the stairs to 221B. John’s shift at the A&E should have ended four hours earlier, but a multiple vehicle accident saw five of the victims end up at his hospital, and it was all hands on deck to get them assessed and stable.

There was no sign of Sherlock when he entered the lounge room, but he could hear the shower running and scent his body wash. John briefly thought about joining him, washing off the smell of hospital and exhaustion of the day, but his tummy rumbled with a force that Mrs Hudson must have been able to hear from her flat below.

Checking the fridge for leftover take away came up fruitless, Sherlock mustn’t have eaten yet, so he checked the freezer, mouth watering at the thought of digging into a bit of pie or lasagne. No sooner had he opened the freezer door than he slammed it closed. He took a deep breath and tried again. Yes, they were toes in that ziplocked bag on the top shelf.

“Sherlock!”

The man in question walked into the kitchen in mouth-wateringly tight black trousers and charcoal shirt yet to be buttoned all the way up. The ends of his hair were still slightly damp from his shower, and John wanted to throw him on the table and have his way with him.

Until he saw the toes again.

“Molly’s boyfriend gave them to me,” Sherlock explained. “From a corpse in the morgue whose feet had been severed.”

“Why?”

“For an experiment. For my book. I needed to know how long it would take before toes went black in freezing conditions.”

Right, Sherlock’s book. His previous book, the anthology of erotic short stories, had become a bit of a cult classic in the six months it had been out. To the point where his publisher had already bought the rights to his latest book; an actual novel this time. John had only been allowed to read the first few chapters thus far, but it was shaping up to be an erotic mystery thriller. It had led to John finding various ‘experiments’ around the apartment, because heaven help Sherlock trusting Google or Wikipedia for information.

“Why does it have to live amongst my food?”

“Where else can it live? They’re in a bag this time.”

John’s gaze was drawn down to where Sherlock was buttoning up the rest of his shirt, covering the expanse of milky white skin.

Hang on a sec, those were his going out clothes.

“Are you going out tonight?”

“We are, remember?”

John sighed. “Seriously?”

“You promised the other night. You said that you’d be happy to go out with me after your last hospital shift for this week, not sooner. That’s tonight.”

John vaguely recalled saying that. He only did three shifts a week at the A&E, job sharing with a fellow doctor he once shared an operating theatre with in Afghanistan, but they were long shifts and they were tiring.

“I’ve just come off a 15 hour stint.”

“I can go on my own, if you’d rather?”

Sherlock knew that John did not like him going out late at night on his own. Sherlock could look after himself well enough but he also liked to incite trouble. John thought that maybe, just this once, he’d let Sherlock loose. All he wanted was a nice hot bath, a strong whiskey, and a full night’s sleep.

“Where are you off to?”

“Golden Towers.”

John quirked an eyebrow. “The strip club?”

“It’s for my novel. It’s an integral part of the story and I need to observe the ins and outs.”

Of course it was for his novel. Everything was for his bloody novel.

“You’ve been to strip clubs before.” John had heard the stories.

“But never as a writer. Only as a single man looking for some fun.”

John’s eyes narrowed. He knew that Sherlock was playing him, and damn it, it was working. “I can be ready in twenty. Let me grab a shower.”

With a sparkle in his eyes, Sherlock leaned over and kissed him. “I do realise I’m not a single man anymore.”

“You better not forget that. Ever.”

Sherlock smirked. Making John jealous appeared to be one of his latest hobbies. “I still wouldn’t mind some fun, but I’m only looking for one person to provide it.”

“Get me some food ready and I’ll ensure that fun is what you get,” John told him, kissing him with an intensity that would leave his boyfriend in no doubt of where the fun would be had that night.

***

Golden Towers was one of the classier strip joints in town, if a strip joint could be classified as such. The carpet underfoot was a rich burgundy, the chairs and bench seats were black leather, and the bar running down the right side of the room was black marble. All patrons abided by a dress code, and it being the evening of their monthly boys night, the clientele were mostly male and mostly gay. In fact, if it weren’t for the stage and floor-to-ceiling poles up front, it would not be immediately obvious what type of establishment it was.

“Thank you.” John took the tumbler of whiskey from Sherlock’s hands, taking a sip and letting the smooth burn unfurl some of the tension from the day. He was still exhausted, but the atmosphere in the room had him perked up.

They were sitting up front, close to the stage, and while that was closer than John would have liked, it was obvious that it was exactly where Sherlock wanted to be. He sat next to John with a glass of red wine by his right hand, scribbling away in his notebook. John rested a hand on Sherlock’s thigh while they waited for the next act. He was there now, he may as well enjoy it.

It had been years since John had been to a strip club, and even then the dancers were decidedly female. He’d only been to the one male strip act, back when he was 20 and questioning his sexuality. His reaction frightened him so much that he ended up running from the venue and having a one night stand with Amelia from his anatomy class.

How life had changed. Twenty years down the track, John was a part-time doctor who co-managed a sex shop with his male lover of eight months. And he was about to watch another man take his kit off onstage.

Life wasn’t horrible.

The sound of a siren interrupted his reverie. John’s first instinct was that there was some form of bust; fight or flight instincts kicking in; but then he realised that the lights onstage had changed and there was a booming voice coming over the PA.

’Ladies and Gentlemen, he’s armed, he’s dangerous, he’s arresting! For one night only, our special guest, our favourite law enforcement officer - DI Lestrade!’

John’s mouth fell open and he looked across at Sherlock who had put his notebook away and was looking very smug.

“You knew about this?” John leaned across to ask him. “I’ve never been able to find out about his impromptu shows until after the fact!”

It was a well known fact that DI Lestrade got his start in the business as a pole dancer before being discovered by an adult movie producer. Every few years you would hear of him returning to his roots, but this was the first time John had ever seen him live and in the flesh.

His eyes were as wide as saucers as Lestrade sauntered onto the stage in a beige trench coat. As the music sped up to something with a faster beat, Lestrade took to the pole on the left side of the stage, spinning round once before flinging his coat off. Slowly, he ripped off his shirt and trousers, leaving him in nothing but a silk tie and g-string.

Lord, the man was fit. As he worked the stage and the poles you could see the great control he had, the flexing of very defined muscles. For all that porn usually did not translate as well to normal life, if anything, it had not done justice deserving of the detective inspector.

John thought it was probably bad manners to be drooling over another man while his boyfriend was seated next to him, but Sherlock did not appear to mind. Each time John threw a glance his way, Sherlock only smiled at him and turned back to the stage.

As the music was heading toward the crescendo, Lestrade suddenly leapt off stage and into the crowd. Hands reached out to touch flesh, but Lestrade turned his gaze to survey the crowd, and if John wasn’t mistaken, that gaze rested purely on him.

He stalked over and straddled John’s lap, and John could barely breathe for the feeling of every single homosexual fantasy coming true. His trousers, already a little tight at the proceedings, were well and truly now in danger of splitting. He cast a nervous look at Sherlock while the crowd cheered. Sherlock was still smiling, as if he thought nothing of his boyfriend getting a lap dance from another man. Lestrade climbed off him and turned around to face the stage, thrusting his arse against John’s crotch, which really, really didn’t need more attention.

John took a deep breath and threw his hand out for Sherlock to hold. Sherlock took it and held it, grounding him. Until he felt a warmth against his fingers. He looked across to see Sherlock licking them, back to Lestrade who was doing a great job of making a show of the lap dance, and back to Sherlock fellating his fingers.

Just when it was becoming too much, Lestrade turned around against, rubbed his chest against John’s, whispered “happy birthday” in his ear, and took off for the stage.

John looked at his watch to see it was 12:02AM on March 31. The week had been so busy he’d forgotten what day it was. But indeed, it was his birthday. And he now knew what the weird, bizarre and utterly amazing night was actually about.

John wished that the people who questioned their relationship could see this, see how thoughtful Sherlock was. John would be the first to admit that Sherlock could be difficult to be around, but John was aware that he was no picnic either, and really, their personalities complemented each other. They laughed, they fought, and they were stupidly in love with each other. Sherlock going to the trouble to bring a decades-old fantasy to life for John’s birthday only proved that.

He reached over and pulled Sherlock across to meet his lips. He kissed him hard and deep and with plenty of tongue. He wanted to devour him.

“How did you manage that?”

“Happy 40th,” is all Sherlock replied.

Within a minute, Lestrade’s act was over to the whoops and cheers of the appreciative crowd. John tugged Sherlock out of his chair and led him down a hallway, following the signage to the bathrooms.

***

Although John had yet to complain (much) about his skills as a boyfriend, Sherlock wasn’t convinced that he was quite up to par when it came to occasions of note. After all, he’d never had someone to share them with before. Christmas went by without a hitch, and John had dismissed any plans for Valentine’s Day as ‘complete rubbish’, but Sherlock was aware that John’s birthday, and his 40th birthday at that, was a milestone that not only should Sherlock do something special for, but he found himself wanting to.

The pressure was on even more so after John had so successfully organised his birthday a few months earlier. John had managed to organise for Sherlock to spend a day riding along with a division of Scotland Yard. Not only was it fascinating, it helped Sherlock with the plot of his novel, and had the added bonus of him actually assisting. Thanks to his observations, a would-be serial killer was caught with no more casualties than the one they were called to. He’d since been invited back three times and was yet to turn down an opportunity.

Thank goodness for The Woman and her contacts in the industry. The object of so many of John’s fantasies (and obvious inspiration for some of his moves in the bedroom) was planning on making a public appearance that year, and Sherlock was able to convince the pretend Detective Inspector to make it happen at a particular venue on a particular day.

It was all worth it, even the debt he now owed to The Woman, because Sherlock’s surprise had worked. John led him to the men’s room with wide eyes, flushed cheeks, and a noticeable bulge in his trousers. Sherlock couldn’t wait to push him against the wall, drop to his knees, and taste the reward of his efforts.

But apparently the birthday boy had other ideas.

Sherlock found himself pulled into a stall and shoved against the wall, John attacking his neck and palming his crotch, which didn’t need much encouragement. Goose-pimples rose upon his flesh as his boyfriend sucked at a particularly sensitive spot and he couldn’t stop the groan falling from his lips.

“You are brilliant,” John said before finding Sherlock’s lips with his own, picking up the kiss from where he left off out in the main room. “I don’t know how you managed it, but you are incredible.”

“Needed to get you something special for your 40th birthday,” Sherlock said as he watched John drop to his knees.

“I’ve got my special gift right here,” he said, unzipping Sherlock’s flies and pulling his erection out. “Wanted to wait until we got home. Wanted to tie you up with your favourite scarves and ride you. But I can’t wait. I need to have you now, or else our cab driver would likely get a show.”

Sherlock groaned as John swallowed him down, and God, why had Sherlock resisted this for so long? He’d always known that John was different to anyone else he’d ever wanted, but he didn’t realise that part of that difference would be wanting him again, and again, and again.

John was a creative and generous lover, and there was a marked advantage to sleeping with someone who knew you so well. Knew what you liked and what you didn’t. Knew where your most sensitive zones were. Knew by the way your eyebrow quirked that you wanted to be on top, or on bottom by the curl of your smile. John was an endless treasure trove to him, and he knew deep down that all of his initial fears of being bored after their first night together were unfounded.

Sherlock Holmes was never, ever going to tire of being the other half of John Watson.

As John continued to work him, Sherlock grabbed fistfuls of his hair. Not trying to guide him, just wanting to keep that connection, to feel him under his fingertips as he oh-so-expertly sucked him down.

“John,” he warned as he was getting close. As much as he didn’t want it to end, he’d been aroused since John first looked at him with wide eyes when Lestrade had graced the stage.

He glanced down to see John looking up at him through his lashes, cheeks pink, and right shoulder moving, obviously jerking himself off. Seeing that image only made the urge to come rise to the surface even stronger.

“Fuck!” he said as he came down John’s throat, legs shaking with the force.

John stood, cleaned himself up with some tissue, and leaned back into him to give him a toe-curlingly good kiss.

“I fucking love you,” John told him and Sherlock felt a warmth spread through his chest like it did whenever he said those words with such feeling.

Sherlock had spent much of his life not believing in love, not believing that emotion was worth the pay off. But John had taught him that none of that was true, that it was worth it when those emotions were brought out by the right person.

He grabbed John around the waist and pulled him closer. “I love you, too, old man.”

He felt the puff of John’s laugh against his ear. It made him smile in return. Mycroft often accused him of being a sap of late. Sherlock was discovering it increasingly more difficult to find it within himself to care.

“Come on then, time to take this old man home to bed.”

When they made it to bed, John didn’t fall straight to sleep like he usually did after three days straight at the hospital. Instead, Sherlock found himself naked, blindfolded and bound, needing to use his senses to anticipate John’s movements. It was thrilling, sensual, carnal, and the fact that John indulged him only made him love the man more.

“Forever,” John said after, when they were sticky and sated and drifting off to sleep. Sherlock was spooning him, arm wrapped around his waist, and John had snuggled back so they were flush back-to-chest. “We should do that forever.”

Sherlock dropped a kiss against John’s scarred shoulder and nuzzled his neck.

“Forever sounds like a brilliant plan.”

“Knew you’d have to like one of my plans eventually.”

Sherlock chuckled and held John tighter, listening to his breathing even out as he fell to sleep.

Once upon a time, the thought of the same routine with the same person day in day out would have been enough for Sherlock to put a bullet in his brain. Now, the thought of not having John to hold onto each night and wake up with each morning was intolerable.

Forever. Yes.

Sherlock drifted off with a smile on his face. With John by his side, dull would be the last thing forever would become.

 

THE END