Chapter Text
Slowly fingers ran over the spot at his left eyebrow where Sherlock had got a few stitches many years ago after John had beaten him up after Mary’s death. From far away Sherlock heard the St Marylebone Parish Church ring its bell once — quarter past twelve. They’ve been lying in bed for hours now (since shortly after we came back), only clothed in a tee and underwear and above the blanket. With all of John’s body heat, who was lying close to him, it would only be too warm anyway.
John had already let him know that he would be sleeping here tonight and Sherlock wouldn’t even have been able to refuse John’s wish (or order) when he had a problem with it.
Their arrival at Baker Street hadn’t been unnoticed; Mrs Hudson had waited for them as soon as they had opened the entrance door. Sherlock was suspecting Lestrade. The elderly lady was beaming all across her face and let them know that she approved of them finally showing their affection to each other.
Patiently John had tried to explain to her that the thing between him and Sherlock was only a very recent development, but she was having none of it. Instead she had given John a glance as if he had told her that the sun was turning around the earth or that the English monarchy was superseding the government.
'It must have been an exhausting day. You two have a beautiful night', was the only thing she had said after she had blinked curtly, the smile frozen on her lips.
With a little cough and a giggle she had waved after them innocently and John had made tea for both of them and both cups were now standing on the two bedside tables while John — again (for the umpteenth time, I have stopped counting) — pressed a light kiss to his temple while the fingers from before were tousling his hair even more.
Sherlock acknowledged that John was currently emotional, even understood why, and that he needed this, so he didn’t complain. He had to admit, he may have enjoyed it a little bit himself.
He would never be the type to enjoy excessive cuddling, but currently he could keep his eyes closed, relaxed, and think a bit about the happenings of the day and sort them into his mind palace — and pacify John at the same time. Effectivity at its best.
John’s fingertips brushed down the side of his face lightly, then along his jaw and down to his chin. When the corresponding thumb rubbed over his damp lower lip gently he opened his eyes again and found himself face to face with John who smiled at him lightly. Sherlock wanted to ask what was so interesting about his face (or faces in general, or other people), but he didn’t when John leaned his forehead against his and exhaled heavily.
John’s fingers left a tingle every time which persisted and then faded.
'Close your eyes', he was told in a quiet voice and when he followed the request John’s lips descended onto his and started to move against them slowly and lazily, almost in a bored fashion.
"For John", he reminded himself again and again because what they were doing now was definitely too slow for his liking. He preferred the more passionate sex things, those with a known goal to which he could work, then continue on his path to do something else.
He counted the minutes in which John just continued on and didn’t stop until he finally dropped down into the sheets next to Sherlock, face down and with a groan, draping his arm over the younger one possessively. The warm fingers followed the cords of his chest muscles and he wondered if John was silently naming them or if that was something that only he was doing and John did the touching out of professional habit.
Air gently blew over his face when John turned his head to him.
'You opened your eyes again', he heard from John and was surprised by how disappointed the doctor sounded.
He blinked.
'You didn’t tell me for how long', he commented, but tried not to sound too precocious.
John inched closer until his nose was stuck in the thin fabric at Sherlock’s shoulder and he noticed an inert smile.
'You’re right of course', was mumbled into his shoulder.
Not for the first time he wanted to ask what the goal of this was — apart from the fact that John planned to sleep here tonight — and again he didn’t. It was one of those emotion things again and the chances were that he wouldn’t get it anyway.
He heard the church clock chime again. Half past twelve.
He felt John’s lips at his shoulder. Through the fabric. His mouth got all dry at the thought alone of having his mouth full of lint. He also felt the fabric dampen. Not much, but noticeably.
With an audible sigh John’s fingers wrapped around the fabric where his hand was on top of Sherlock’s chest and he looked into the detective’s eyes.
'I know that you don’t like it, that’s why I’m not doing it — but … could you lie on top of me?' he was asked and he blinked once.
'What for?'
'So that I can feel you.'
'I would crush you.'
Where John would’ve normally started to giggle he only showed a small smile now.
'You overestimate your weight. You may be taller than I am, but the one who’s able to carry you around the flat effortlessly is still me.'
Sherlock blinked again.
'Let’s not try that out', he let John know vehemently before he grabbed John’s shoulder and moved him onto his back before he followed and — he had to admit, a little awkwardly — draped himself over John.
What did John have in mind? Off-centre? Flush? Should he hug John? Where to put his head so he wouldn’t suffocate?
First he tried it slightly off-centre, his head next to John’s, his body otherwise flush with the doctor’s, not counting his legs which were too long, but this was quickly becoming uncomfortable, so he inched back a bit, leant his head sideways against John’s good shoulder and wrapped an arm around his body below his shoulders and the other around his lower back. He hesitated, then he wrapped his right leg around John’s upper thigh and pressed his left one against John’s other lengthwise.
'Like that?' he wanted to know while John’s breath had got noticeably more shallow below his weight, which raised him slightly and then lowered him back down with each breath.
'Hmm', he heard — and felt — the other one nod, his face currently buried in Sherlock’s hair.
Arms wrapped around him as well and held on to him. First he felt cornered, then he slowly started to relax a bit. He definitely wouldn’t be able to sleep like this. Way too uncomfortable. But he also didn’t expect John to want to sleep right now.
He got to something that he loved to do since day one; reading the situation. Overestimating his weight or not, John definitely wouldn’t be able to sleep like this or didn’t want to, so what was this for? Maybe it had something to do with the effects of weighted blankets on people with autism? (Release of serotonin and dopamine, cortisol is lowered, production of melatonin is increased, the reduction of sensory overload, predictable consistent stimuli to improve body perception and reduction of fear, the provision of proprioceptive stimuli.)
The hand that had just been up at his shoulders slid up to the back of his neck to play with his short, curly hair and interrupted his thought process.
John hadn’t talked about it — all in all, he hadn’t said much at all in the last few hours — but Sherlock had been able to figure out the course of the evening himself.
John, sitting in the pub, probably in front of a drink (no alcohol, I would’ve smelt and tasted it when I kissed him), impatiently waiting for him to join him. Then John noticing the turmoil of the passing fire engines and police cars (must’ve come from this direction), then him dropping a bit of money on his table and hurrying outside, probably with a queasy feeling, the knowledge of how often Sherlock got himself in trouble or simply a bad feeling he had.
He probably had walked down the street southwards, at first still somewhat moderate, then running when he had seen what was up in flames. Maybe the police tape had been there already. Most likely it wasn’t. John hadn’t been looking for Lestrade at all, but tried the door right away, locked, but barely an obstacle for a wildly determined John. He probably wanted to kick it in and was then disturbed by Lestrade and the firefighter who had pulled him back. And then he had shown up and had resolved the situation, but not before Lestrade first became suspicious and then, somewhere between this moment and their conversation, found out about what they were doing in their free time. He wasn’t quite able to assess Greg’s reaction. He had looked a little … disconcerted. Was that the right word? And surprised, but this was barely a surprise. The interaction with Donovan and Anderson mostly amused him. He couldn’t care less what the two of them were thinking about it.
'What are you thinking about?' he heard John’s voice and raised his head jerkily.
'Thinking? Me? Why would you think that I’m-'
'Because we’ve been here for a few hours and I’ve never seen you not think for so long. I can also see it in your face.'
'In my face?'
He knew this sudden talkativeness from John. He could deal with that. John accusing him of thinking because he was brooding himself, then noticing it and now trying to distract himself. He could help with that.
'Yes', John nodded to his latest question. Fingers grabbed his face lightly. 'You always pull your eyebrows together when you do it.' Thumbs pulled his eyebrows a bit down and towards each other. 'And your face gets all expressionless and relaxed at the same time. Sometimes I can see what you’re thinking, then the corner of your mouth twitches or an eyebrow or your eyes narrow.' John’s fingers had followed his words, had touched the corner of his mouth lightly, then brushed over his eyebrow and then gently rubbed the skin beside his eye.
Unconsciously he pulled his eyebrows into a frown. He had thought that he had his face under control, but John seemed to be reading him like an open book.
John’s face was … soft. A light smile, relaxed, smoothed wrinkles.
He freed his arm from John’s lower back and pressed it into the sheets next to John’s head to keep himself upright while he pulled his body a bit higher and then put his lips against John’s.
The hands on his face massaged his temples gently and he heard John exhale with a contented sigh.
'You became really good at kissing, do you know that?' John whispered to him when he broke the kiss momentarily and Sherlock paused to listen to John’s words. 'Earlier, in front of Greg’s whole work force …' Another small smile spread over John’s face.
'Not quite', Sherlock let him know while a warm feeling spread in his chest.
'I know, I overexaggerated it a little bit, after all it was only Sally and Philip, but-'
Sherlock interrupted him with a shake of his head.
'I became really good at kissing you. To my knowledge, different people like different things — only that I don’t care about different people. John Watson, I’m good at kissing you', he emphasised once more.
'Kiss me again, would you?'
John’s voice had that undertone — not commanding, but … pleading — that made it impossible for him to refuse his request. He nodded seriously and bent down. What did John want of him? A kiss like now? Or a kiss like before?
He decided to start with the former and move on to the second as needed.
Without a problem he found the perfect position for their lips to fit against each other like they were made for it, John’s lips slim and slightly damp and reddened from the earlier kisses.
"The second", his brain let him know when Johns’ lips intensified the formerly light contact and as if learned (no, not as if, I did learn it) he repeated the kiss from where they had been standing in front of Waterloo Station, massaged John’s lips with his own and licked into his mouth until John followed the prompt and rubbed their tongues against each other.
A hand found a handful of his tee at his shoulder, the other wrapped around his lower back. A moment later the hands let go of him abruptly.
'Sorry', he heard John slur against his lips and he broke the kiss, looking for John’s gaze and saying after a thoughtful moment:
'It’s fine.' Then he added — for John’s sake, not because he wanted it that badly (not quite right, I want to see John’s reaction, time for a new experiment, it’s worth it): 'Touch me.'
He hid his gratification. Experiment satisfactory. John’s pupils were dilating noticeably, so were his eyes. He heard a sound he was barely able to place and for a moment he was sure that John would ask 'Are you sure?', but there were no words that made sense coming out of the doctor’s mouth.
This all barely took two seconds, then John’s hands were back in their former position. Additionally he felt John’s dick more vehemently against his hip than a moment ago. Nothing had happened in his crotch — as usual. Yet. He had to admit, he was a little suspicious of it all. He doubted that the human body was made to have that much sex in that short a time.
'Kiss me!' John ordered in a rough voice and he followed the command, only to feel John’s warm hand at the small of his back a moment later where his tee had slipped, not at all by accident. The adjoining hand had moved deeper and now started to massage his arse — above the fabric of his underwear — and a shudder ran down his back.
He shifted his weight a bit and pressed his hip down to apply more pressure against John’s cock.
As expected John started to move his lower body against him, small but jerky little motions. What was unexpected was that the friction of John’s hip triggered a reaction in his own cock. Not Too much this time. He felt a light tingle and pulsing when the blood started to gather in his dick slowly.
It wasn’t hard to tell by John’s reaction (moves his head a bit, tries to look between us, goes stock-still for a moment) that he also noticed.
A moment later the kiss was broken and John asked with a noticeably hoarse voice: 'The "Touch me" from before … What exactly … does it include?'
He understood the carefully worded question as what it was: John asking if he could masturbate him. He didn’t owe John anything. Not even after the incident with the burning building. He also didn’t have a guilty conscience for leaving John behind to do his work.
What won this time was — he barely believed it — sexual curiosity again. If it were different when John did it instead of him. Less frustrating and time-consuming.
From John’s earlier relationships he knew that the doctor came out of sexual encounters more satisfied when his partner was also satisfied (even though I can’t exactly tell to what extent and what’s all included). And John did have that look on his face since they had started the whole sex thing when Sherlock was pleasuring him in whichever way — again —while he was completely skipped over and ignored (according to my wishes, which John respects, but that hasn’t changed anything about his look). The look was a weird mix of disappointment, regret and discomfort whenever Sherlock had told him that the sex was doing nothing to him (even though that hasn’t quite been the truth, at least as of late, I just didn’t want him to touch me, that I get an erection after all and then have to deal with sex things).
He was aware that sex would become way more time-consuming from now on, but for John … (no, no suspension marks, for John, period).
He had to admit, it made him awfully sluggish, a condition he wasn’t quite appreciative of, but all in all it didn’t feel all that bad.
Licking his lips he finally answered John’s question (finally is more a matter of opinion, I barely thought about it longer than three or four seconds). Using a consciously deep, seductive tone of voice and letting his fingertips brush over John’s neck lightly he asked, choosing the emphasis of his phrase and his words consciously: 'Hmm … What … do you want it to include?'
He licked his lips again, slowly and for John this time, his gaze questioning and pretentiously shy and coy. It had the desired effect. He noticeably felt John’s cock harden. Humans — no, men — were so simple.
The hand at his arse took a grip suddenly and pulled him against John’s body and his own body reacted with an electric current that ran through his limbs and an intensified pulsing in his lower body. Abruptly he squeezed his lips shut, but couldn’t suppress the sharp exhale through his nose.
For a moment they moved against each other, following the flow of motion, then they paused and John’s second hand brushed through his hair, paused at the back of his head and grabbed a handful of his hair.
"Not good" he wanted to let John know, but the older one had already raised his head a bit and told him in a quiet, yet powerful, commanding voice:
'I thought about something like: I wank you off and make you beg and scream my name and then I’ll have you between my legs, my penis in your mouth because we don’t have a towel here and you don’t want the bed dirty and cum so deep down your throat that you have to swallow.'
"I don’t beg" was on the tip of his tongue, but he was taken aback by a sudden shortness of breath and he rubbed his cock once clumsily against John’s warm, firm body below him to get himself some relief.
'What do you say?' John wanted to know when he didn’t answer, speechless and thunderstruck as he was.
'Okay', he finally managed to say, his voice noticeably out of breath.
A moment later John’s sudden outburst of the Captain was gone again and the older man seemed surprised by himself, maybe even a little startled, the hand on his head let go off his hair again and rubbed over the back of his head for a moment, John’s head fell back into the pillow while he watched Sherlock scrutinisingly, taking a deep breath.
The hand on his buttocks moved up to his back and with a light tap against his hip John turned them around circuitously so that they were lying on their sides, looking at each other.
'That …' the older one started with a little cough, 'was an euphemism. And an exaggeration. I wouldn’t really …' John cleared his throat once more.
Sherlock had been able to guess that already. John wasn’t forcing himself onto others, least of all sexually. And yet, he couldn’t help but ask curiously: 'So? Why not?'
John’s pupils dilated noticeably while his breath escaped his throat audibly and slowly between half-open lips. Noticeably aroused. Sherlock saved the information for a later time, because even though he was noticeably trying John’s patience he already knew that John wouldn’t give in to his provocations.
'No, Sherlock', he was told, not as an answer to his question but to his provocation, a little strict, yet at the same time with the arousal he had noticed on John earlier. 'Sit … a bit upright, hmm? With your back to the headboard?'
Interested Sherlock gazed at the other man for a moment, then he followed the instruction slowly. Within a second he understood what John was doing. John knew that he didn’t like being on his back, with John on top of him.
John followed slowly, sat upright, next to Sherlock and head-on and collected the pillows to give them to Sherlock so that he could gather them behind his back.
The older one slid closer, supporting himself on one hand on the other side of Sherlock’s body which brought his lower arm dangerously close to Sherlock’s cock which was gradually swelling and going flacid in his boxers, depending on if his brain was going a mile a minute or John was provoking him (or ordering me to do things apparently).
The doctor got on his knees a bit and now towered next to him, not a lot, but noticeably, so much so that he had to put his head in his nape when John used a questioning glance to his lips, making him nod curtly and then John kissed him.
What started with a slight touch of their lips quickly grew to a hungry swirl of their tongues that made Sherlock breathless.
'Okay', was whispered against his lips when John moved away by half an inch, 'where do you like to be touched? What do you like and what don’t you like? What feels good for you?'
Sherlock blinked.
'Too complicated.' (And lengthy and boring.) 'Let’s just get this over with', he answered with a shrug and knew immediately that it had been the wrong answer.
Abruptly John leaned back a bit.
'No', John said determinedly, then a more gentle expression spread over his face — and something that Sherlock couldn’t quite put his finger on, because it was something provoking, determined that he didn’t know of John in this context.
A finger slipped underneath his chin and raised it gently so that he had to keep eye contact with John and couldn’t look away.
'Convince me', John said, calm, yet curious and determined. 'Convince me that you want this or we’ll stop.'
"We’ll stop", resounded in his head. "Perfect", his head let him know, "exactly what we want." Or maybe not. The thought that John could simply stop to do … what? Lie down next to him on the bed, his back to him, and sleep? Go to the bathroom to masturbate? Stand up to make tea? This didn’t sit well with him. Why? Why did it bother him? Non-judgmental he acknowledged that he didn’t like it when John put his attention on anything other than him.
He was the one above the sexual needs, not John. John stopping sex to do something else didn’t fit his worldview and it pricked his pride, because it implicated — in his head and his imagination at least — that John considered something else (sleeping, masturbating, tea) more interesting than him.
'You know I don’t care for sex', he said soberly, watching John’s reaction to his words intently.
'Then I guess you won’t mind when I-' John started, pulling back his hand and his body, and Sherlock interrupted him by grabbing his wrist abruptly, holding it in a vice-like grip.
John raised an eyebrow, slow, provoking, telling. Sherlock’s words got caught in his throat and his dick twitched with interest.
A voice in his head shouted: "Sherlock Holmes doesn’t beg", but he pushed it aside.
This wasn’t real begging. But he had to play along to John’s game, at least for the moment.
Within a few moments he managed to gather fake tears in his eyes and made his gaze submissive and his voice was pleading and shaky when he said: 'Don’t. Don’t go.'
For a moment there were emotions battling each other in John’s gaze. First there was worry and care, a soft, gentle gaze that told him that John would promise the world to him if he just asked, a moment later John understood that Sherlock was manipulating him and his eyes narrowed for a moment.
'Sherlock.'
Sitting more upright the spoken to ignored his friend and pulled John’s wrist to his chest to put it there.
'I want you to touch me.'
He pulled John’s arm down his body, towards his cock.
'I need you to touch me. Please, don’t go, touch me, I need you, I need you- Ah!'
He had to admit, he walked right into his own trap. He reckoned that John would react to it, no, he worked towards it. That John’s hand would wrap around his half-hard cock was something he could’ve reckoned with. The abrupt moan escaping him hadn’t been planned, nor that his head fell back into his nape or that his hips moved in John’s direction.
Skilfully John’s fingertips found his frenulum and corona glandis through his pants and foreskin and the lonely moan turned into a loud, repeated gasping for air and the fake tears in the corners of his eyes lost their deceit.
Jerkily he pulled on John’s wrist and slumped down with a relieved exhale when John let go of him. He felt John’s lips lightly against his temple.
'Let’s try that one more time?' John asked him in a gentle voice.
'W-What?' he croaked.
'Where do you like being touched?' John repeated his words and he licked his lips and shook his head.
'No idea. I don’t know. How should I know that?'
His voice had got a slightly desperate note to it.
'All right', John whispered. 'Everything’s all right. Care to find out?'
He raised his shoulders, overwhelmed. John’s hand on his cock had derailed him. He hadn’t expected John’s hand to feel so different from his own. And that he would react so violently to it.
'Okay', he whispered back and John placed a gentle kiss against his temple and leaned back a bit to sit next to him instead, still head-on.
'Should I just experiment and you tell me yes or no?' John suggested and he licked his lips and then nodded.
His head was turning. His erection was pulsing.
John slowly raised his hand at an angle that made sure that he could keep an eye on it, then the hand was put on the shoulder further away from John, warm and heavy, squeezing it curtly before a few warm fingertips moved on to his neck, following it up with gentle pressure.
’No’, he squeezed out and less than a heartbeat later the hand returned to his shoulder where it remained for a moment before it brushed over his chest above his tee and then stopped so that John’s thumb and pointer finger came to a rest over his nipple. The thumb rubbed over it broadly, then both fingers started to stimulate it.
With doubtfully pulled together eyebrows Sherlock looked down on himself and following the eye contact with John he could only shrug.
'Okay, let us leave that generic clobber be', John let him know and inched closer to him until their upper thighs touched while the older one bent forward. 'I’m sure that I know exactly what you like.'
The words, why John then didn’t start with that immediately, were on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue, but John’s statement had occurred so close to his ear that he pre-cautiously kept his mouth shut before unwanted noises could escape him.
Warm air brushed over his auricle when John asked quietly: 'Give me your hand?'
"Which?" he had originally wanted to ask, but now feared that he would get loud, so he simply raised his right into John’s direction and felt a moment later how it was caught in a grip of strong fingers and then John started to massage his hand, then his fingers, while John’s lips were still hovering close to his ear, pressing a light kiss to his earlobe.
His breath paused and his eyes drooped while his body was giving in more and more, sagging back into the pillows.
John hadn’t promised too much. The touches were more pleasant and relaxing than sexually stimulating, but they left a tingle in his skin that slowly spread through his whole arm and then further on from there.
Slowly John’s fingers moved over his arm, now without the earlier gentle pressure but extremely delicately instead, over his wrist where the fingertips drew little circles that intensified the tingle, up over the inside of his lower arm and with a few more circles to the inside of his elbow.
Reaching his shoulder the fingers skipped his neck and cupped the edge of his ear instead to follow its outline and to massage it.
'Good, yes?' was whispered into his ear, then John’s lips closed around his earlobe while the fingers did the same at his other ear.
He nodded wordlessly, trying to breathe calmly. His ears felt hot and burning. The tingle had continued on to his lower body and persisted there.
'Down with your pants', he was quietly ordered and he quickly pulled on the piece of clothing and kicked it off his long legs.
John’s lips still at his ear a hand brushed slowly down his upper body and Sherlock felt his chest rise and sink more slowly against his will and his limbs start to shake.
He quickly licked his lips when John’s fingers made a little detour over the side of his body which tickled, but in a good way, before they moved deeper — and then down his leg.
Almost disappointed he grunted and raised his head heavily, his eyebrows pulled into a frown. He could feel John smile while his fingers roamed deeper, to his knee before starting to caress it gently. Sherlock blinked. That was his knee. It had no business feeling so good. Next John’s fingers found his inner thighs and he sighed heavily while the stimulation so close to his intimate area made his dick twitch.
Slowly moving up John’s hand found his erection over which backside his palm lightly made its way up.
'Is that good?' he was asked while John changed his position and also leaned against the headboard with his back, close to Sherlock and without taking his hand off his cock which the warm fingers were covering thoroughly.
His gaze firmly on John’s hand around himself he nodded quietly and watched the fingers tighten their grip lightly and then loosen it again before the slightly callused tips slowly moved up and down on his erection and John’s hand tightened its grip again, skilfully and determined. With a backhand grip the fingers started to massage his root, then they moved upwards just as slowly.
The already familiar tingle of the touch was so much more intense in his cock than it was on his arm or leg and he only noticed that he tightly bit his lip when John’s right arm wrapped around his shoulder and a finger — coming from the other side — tapped against his lips.
'Don’t', John whispered to him. 'Don’t bite your lips.'
Sherlock quickly shook his head.
'I … I’m making sounds', he noticed, his voice husky and noticeably breathless.
'I know. That’s normal. And I’d really like to hear "your sounds". Let me hear you, okay? Please?'
The younger one shook his head again, then John’s fingers found his foreskin and rubbed it in skilful movements over his glans and Sherlock’s resolution ceased and he first inhaled air curtly, then gasped heavily, felt his hips start to squirm under John’s ministrations and the muscles in his pelvis started to tense up. He was just in the process of noticing that this by far weren’t three to five minutes of direct penile stimulation when John’s fingers let go of him and the building, pre-explosive sensation in his lower body abruptly collapsed and ceased.
'Not yet', John let him know and he grunted unhappily, raised his head again which — without him even noticing it — fell back into his neck — and blinked heavily to look at John both outraged and lacking understanding at the same time.
'What?' he managed to say and John pressed a kiss to his temple.
'I said "Not yet". Does that sound familiar?'
Yes. Indeed, it did. He more than deserved this retaliation.
'The orgasm becomes more intense like that. You’ll see', John explained to him and he pulled his eyebrows together. Maybe not retaliation after all. Just John wanting the best for him.
He licked his lips.
'Okay', he croaked and felt John’s right arm wrap around his lower back instead. John seemed to have issues with how he needed to position his hands, obviously not used to stimulating someone else’s cock.
'Do you want more?'
A single digit ran up the backside of his penis to his covered tip and a miserable little noise escaped his lips and he nodded.
'Then ask me for it. Go on.'
Sherlock licked his lips curtly and then had to close his eyes. John’s gaze on him was too much. He didn’t have false modesty or shame. His body told him that it wanted an orgasm — right now, preferably — and it ordered him to give in to the craving. Logic told him that he would reach this target the quickest by following John’s request, so he did exactly that.
Opening his eyes again he had gathered a few more tears in them — not all of them fake — and slightly turned his head to look up with a plea in his eyes, his head put back into his nape and baring his throat in the process, submissiveness if ever there was one.
'Touch me, please?' He put an imploring undertone into his actually completely unfaked shaky voice. 'I want to orgasm, please, John, let me cum?' His breath paused abruptly when John’s hand wrapped around his erection again. Damp. Not lube. John’s spit. Unhygienic. He almost screwed up his nose, but the arousal was quicker and his mouth opened to a shaky exhale. 'Please, John, it hurts, let me cum, please!'
Too late he noticed that this was a bit too much. He should probably keep his mouth shut when he was unable to use all of his brain’s capacity. With quite a startled expression on his face John let go of him and wanted to move back a bit, but Sherlock made an unhappy noise and grabbed John’s wrist erratically.
'Euphemism, John! And a stupid one, too. Don’t stop!'
This time his last shout wasn’t a try to manipulate the other man. John seemed to have noticed this as well, because after a moment’s hesitation the strong fingers wrapped around his lightly pulsing erection with a skilled grip.
An almost relieved exhale escaped his lips when the stimulation was resumed, a skilled massaging of the root, a stimulating rubbing of all five fingers amongst his glans, … John’s second hand united itself with the other, coming from the other side, and the fingertips massaged his swollen shaft with gentle pressure and played with his foreskin and again he pinched his lips tightly shut to be more quiet, but even this was something he was failing by now.
Unnoticed he had clawed his one hand in the sheet at some point in the last minute and the other in John’s upper thigh.
It happened so quickly that he barely noticed one hand letting go of him — especially since the other one didn’t stop its stimulation —, but from the corners of his eyes he saw John spit on his fingers and then the left was pulled over Sherlock’s glans. Fingers brushed below his foreskin lightly and spread the saliva over his tip, then the fingers pulled back the loose skin and massaged the tip’s sensitive backside.
'John, John, John …' he started to croak and gave a long-drawn-out whimper when the two hands let go of him abruptly and instead held on to his squirming hips.
'Next time', John promised close to his ear. 'Next time you can cum. Does that sound good? Yes?'
Speechless he gasped for air.
'Here, I promise you, this time you can cum.'
The hands returned and took on their former task again.
This time he was more quickly at the earlier point of where he moved towards John’s hands without him wanting to while the occasional sound of lust escaped his throat, his head half on John’s shoulder and half in the pillows, his eyes closed heavily, his body tensing up tightly again and again while John’s fingers massaged him more intensively with the skill of countless years, a thumb rubbing over his tip, skilled pressure against his frenulum, the warm palm wrapping tightly around the lower part of his shaft.
He grunted several times and tried to give in to the feeling, but something held him back. John seemed to notice as well. A wrong tension in his body or the noises he was making which turned desperate and frustrated, the more intense thrusting motions of his hips.
'Hey, let go. Enjoy it. You’re safe. I’m taking care of you. Everything’s all right', John let him know in a calming voice and apparently it had been exactly what was missing, because he started to thrust into John’s fist abruptly.
'Don'stop', he gasped out heavily and with one last abrupt tensing of his body he felt semen spill over his stomach abruptly and John’s touches slowed down abruptly and became lighter, but didn’t stop until his lower body flinched away from the warm fingers.
He felt heat burn in his cheeks when he noticed in retrospect how loud he got during the orgasm. Now he needed a moment to gather himself again while John got noticeably jittery next to him due to his own arousal.
It was a bit like on Thursday, the day when it had all started. When John had copulated with him penetratively. John touching him was, compared to himself touching him, a difference like day and night.
His arms and legs were still vibrating and a pleasant heat was stuck in his softening cock. He was stuck in this sleepy state for one minute and forty-two seconds, leaning against John heavily, his eyes half closed, then he forced himself into an upright position, less elegantly and quickly than usual.
He had no idea where John got the tissue from that was now given to him, but he thankfully wiped the semen off his stomach, folded the tissue neatly and then dropped it on the beside table crudely before he slid down the bed and turned on his stomach — noticing that the touch of the fabric on his cock was too much right now and therefore lightly pulling his knees below his body to escape the unwanted stimulation — and draping his upper body lengthwise over John’s upper thighs.
Then he noticed the crescent imprints of his fingernails on John’s naked upper thigh and paused at them to run his tongue over each single one of them (only imprints, no blood, safe and hygienic enough), then his fingers found John’s tight pants and pulled them down below his knee pits skilfully.
He was already bending forward when John — who had just looked at him with a fascinated gaze until now — stopped him with a hand at his forehead.
’S-Sherlock, what are you doing?’
The detective raised his gaze to John’s eyes, his face mere centimetres away from the older one’s erection, and blinked, unimpressed.
'You wanked me off', he started to list, 'and both made me beg and scream your name, now I’m between your legs, the next step-'
'Sherlock, no!', John said sharply, but Sherlock didn’t miss the abrupt blush spreading over John’s face and how the dick in front of him twitched in interest. 'I told you we’re not doing that, it was a throwaway line and-'
John shut up when Sherlock licked his lips, deliberately slowly until they were shimmering wetly and then opened his mouth, his gaze still firmly on John’s face.
’S-Sherlock, no’, John tried again, but Sherlock kept his mouth open stubbornly and lightly stretched out his tongue until his lower teeth were covered by it and then his lower lip.
Pre-cum made John’s uncovered glans shine in the dusky light.
'I … ' the older one started, breathing heavily, then he stopped. 'Do what you must', he whispered, noticeably aroused, and a gleam entered Sherlock’s eyes while he bent further down, happy with himself and closing his mouth again.
Purposely he breathed warm air over John’s cock, then his fingers found John’s hips to stop him from actually thrusting into his throat like John had said earlier and pressed his lips lightly against John’s tip, his gaze still on John, while he opened his mouth lightly to put his lips over the wet tip. John’s breath got louder and his chest rose and fell more intensely and quickly. Pulling his lips inside to save John’s pulsing erection from his teeth he rubbed his tongue skilfully over the sensitive tip.
He let go of John’s hips for a moment to grab his hands instead and pull them to his head, throwing him a mischievous grin as well as possible while the older one’s hands wrapped around the sides of his head.
He didn’t plan to let John have a say in the speed. Of how deep his cock was inserted. But he was ready to give John the illusion of it. It wasn’t the first time, John knew the rules. But he put it on his list to try in the future how John reacted when his penis was so deep down his throat that he needed to swallow. He wasn’t thinking about whether he was even capable of doing it. Not now. Today he only had John’s glans in his mouth, like usual, and nothing else.
As aroused as John was it was more than plenty in itself. Not taking his eyes off John’s face, knowing that John liked it, he suckled on the tip gently, swallowed several times, sucked again and hummed gently, making his throat vibrate, while John whispered in a rough voice how good he felt and that he would cum soon and the he loved him and how perfect he was.
If he hadn’t had his mouth full he would’ve told John to do it, a cheeky grin on his face, a light wink. The way it was he simply intensified his efforts and massaged the rest of John’s cock with his fingers until he — as he had predicted, though not as deeply — came into his mouth.
Less than half an hour later they were lying in bed together, showered, with brushed teeth and fresh tees and pants and John was wearing one of Sherlock’s pyjama trousers which was noticeably too long for him.
John was noticeably tired, more so than Sherlock who was lying on his back, while John’s front was pressing into his side and his arms were wrapped around his body. John’s head was halfway on and halfway against his shoulder and he had wrapped the corresponding left arm around John’s shoulders.
The blanket was spread over them, the lights were killed. The red display of his alarm clock showed 1.32 am.
First there had been silence, now he broke it with the thoughts he had had with the information of the last few days.
'You know, I think I might have a problem with anorgasmia.'
'Hmm …' he heard John’s sleepy confirmation that he was listening.
'Situational, anyway; and psychologically; it can occur with cognitive dissonance; for example, when you feel physical arousal, but aren’t connected with the experience mentally it can impair the ability to orgasm if it is connected to both physical and emotional relief and when the emotional part is missing it becomes an issue; indeed it can also be due to a lack of sexual desire or missing motivation — guilty, I have to admit; and even when the body is aroused, a lack of internal desire — also known as libido — or the lack or a sexual "goal" can reduce the bodily motivation to actually reach an orgasm, which results in the body reacting, but a lack of a mental urge to continue on; of course it’s also a mental thing with me; not quite performance anxiety, more like self-control?; I guess I’m thinking too much about the act and analyse reactions — mine, too — and this inner background noise disrupts me in the relaxation and the commitment it needs to come to an end; additionally there’s the lack of positive associations with sexuality and to my knowledge this slightly negative associations are already enough to create an unconscious resistance; since I also never had the urge to participate in sex it creates some sort of identity versus arousal conflict and confusion that can block orgasms even when everything is working physically; furthermore arousal and orgasms aren’t always linked with each other and a person can be physically aroused without being so mentally or the other way around, that’s why-'
He stopped. John had let him talk for a surprisingly long time without interrupting him and with a glance to his side he noticed that it was because the other man had fallen asleep.
Sherlock blinked, then he raised his hand lightly to brush a short strand of hair out of John’s forehead.
He was also tired, if not to say absolutely knackered, but his brain was working in overdrive. With interest he noticed that — even though there was a noticeable deficit of both physical and mental performance right before, during and after the arousal-thing, that he was back to working as well as before after only a little while. Maybe even better than before. His thoughts seemed quicker, more organised and concentrated.
With one last look down at John he licked his lips curtly, then he freed himself circuitously and carefully from John’s grip.
In the semi-dark of his room he saw John’s lashes and eyelids flutter, how his eyebrows pulled together and his hands moved slightly, but Sherlock just pressed his head back into the pillow with his hand.
'Everything’s all right', he let John know and gave him a little kiss on his forehead and John fell back into a deeper sleep with a long sigh.
Sherlock covered him with the blanket thoroughly, then he climbed off the bed carefully and found his bathrobe hanging behind the door, put it on and left his room on naked, quiet toes to move towards the sitting room.
He really, really needed to get on the VEIL case.
In the early morning hours Sherlock jumped once more into a more upright position when he heard John call out 'Sherlock!' loudly.
A moment later he was halfway up on his feet — if only mentally — then John burst into the kitchen first and then out of it and into the sitting room where the detective was sitting on the couch with his legs crossed, the laptop in front of him on the coffee table and with his fingertips hovering over the keyboard.
He didn’t move while John came to a halt, breathing heavily, and then stepped towards him with a few steps.
Hands grabbed his face and raised it while John watched him with a deep line between his eyebrows and a strict gaze.
'Circles around your eyes, pale skin, dry lips, reddened eyeballs — awake all night. Again.'
It wasn’t even a question, just a statement. Sherlock, a moment ago with a neutral expression, put on an innocent, guilt-ridden, submissive mask.
'No, don’t do that, that doesn’t work on me', John let him know with a sigh and he dropped the mask abruptly. John sighed heavily — still wearing only a tee and Sherlock’s pyjama trousers — and bent down to him to press a kiss to his lips. Irritated he pursed his lips as well, but then John already let go of him again.
'I’m making you tea', John let him know while he stamped off towards the kettle.
'Coffee would be-'
'I said: I’m making you tea.'
Sherlock blinked. 'Why were you calling?' he wanted to know and heard John sigh from the kitchen.
'I woke up and you weren’t there and the bed was cold. I thought that something might’ve happened.'
Silence.
'I see.'
'Why didn’t you sleep?'
'The case.'
'Which couldn’t have waited until the morning? Or-' John’s head appeared in the frame of the door. 'Or was it because I was in bed with you? Weren’t you able to sleep?'
Sherlock shook his head. 'I didn’t even try. I was awake and full of energy, I had to use that.'
John sighed heavily, then he turned away again to get cups.
'Did you progress at least?' he was asked from the kitchen.
'Of course, John, I was-'
A knock on their flat door interrupted him.
'Good morning', they heard Mrs Hudson’s cheerful voice. 'I made you breakfast.'
John’s head showed up in the door to the kitchen again and both their eyes were on the entrance door which wasn’t — as usual — opened. The two men looked at each other.
'Mrs Hudson?' it was John who cleared his throat. 'Don’t you want to come in?'
'Are you boys wearing clothes?' they were asked and John immediately hid his face in his hands while an amused gleam entered Sherlock’s eyes.
'Of course', he answered because John didn’t look like he would do so anytime soon and the door opened a crack, then their landlady came in, balancing a tablet on her hands, toast and fried egg and sausages.
She wished them a good morning again, seemed to know with one single knowing glance that the pyjama trousers John was wearing didn’t belong to him and put the tablet on a free spot of the big table.
John smiled in agony while he thanked her for the food and Mrs Hudson nodded and walked back towards the flat’s door.
’Say’, she started, at the door but still inside the flat, and Sherlock knew immediately that the breakfast she brought them was only an excuse to ask them what was now to come out of her mouth. 'Do you still need both of the rooms?'
'Of course!' John called out loudly. 'Why?' he then asked, more moderately.
'Well, I think that it’s time for our little Rosy to have a room of her own and the two of you could just as well sleep in one room and-'
'Why would you think that we’re sleeping in one room?' slipped out of John’s mouth and Mrs Hudson threw a telling glance at the trousers he was wearing.
Sherlock followed the conversation with an amused facial expression but stayed out of it. He had to admit, Mrs Hudson’s comment about Rosie was quite valid, but he couldn’t answer yet if he really wanted John permanently in his room. Right now the answer was No and since this was a bit on the Not good side and could potentially irritate or hurt John, he didn’t say anything.
Mrs Hudson let them know that they should think about it, told them to enjoy their meal and left the flat, one last gaze on them which Sherlock considered happy, satisfied and loving.
He heard John sigh heavily and when the doctor showed up in the frame of the door again the next time he carried two cups of tea which he carried to the table where Mrs Hudson had put their breakfast.
Invitingly John pointed to the sitting room table.
'Come, eat.' After a moment of silence John added: 'You can tell me what you found out in the meantime.'
Sherlock was all right with this compromise.
He untangled himself and took the laptop to the table to have photos to show as well as words and sat in his place.
'Remember', John reminded him, 'eating and talking in a ratio of one to one.'
With a pout Sherlock grabbed the toast with his bare fingers, folding it roughly in the middle and took a big bite so that John would stop complaining while he summarised the results of his research in his head to tell them as efficiently as possible.
As originally planned — it seemed to be ages — he had put up Helena’s (or Elise’s or Cecilia’s) colleagues’ information on the computer. The five men and women were all unknown to him, both by face and even more so by the pseudonyms they were using, even though some of them had a rather dry sense of humour that he liked. His favourite example was a man living right next to the office on Harben Road: Wren Byrd (or Latin Troglodytes troglodytes, one of the loudest voices in the British birdlife, almost ninety different subspecies, up to sixty of them sleep together in one place during winter, male wrens build several nests to impress the females). He had to admit, he did look a bit like a bird, though not exactly like a wren. The photos Helena had found for him were all obviously taken by the surveillance camera of the flat. Byrd was an inconspicuous, middle-aged man with rust-coloured hair and a light five o’clock shadow and a neutral facial expression. He looked like someone Sherlock expected to meet in the forest with a round explorer’s hat and a forest-coloured waistcoat and binoculars around his neck. He wore a brown suit jacket and below a simple, plain tee. A clear-cut nose, beady eyes, high cheekbones and slim lips with an even more slim chin.
The next man — small, black, buzz cut — called himself Kevin Hart (John explains to me that there’s an American actor who looks similar to him, never heard of him, John thinks it’s hilarious).
The woman whose profile came next was called Anita Ramaswami, noticeably of Indian descent, with a professional black blazer, a strict posture that reminded him of Mycroft (stick up the arse) and fashionable glasses, her black hair neatly pulled back to a bun.
The other woman was called Hilda Thacker. By now he knew that this was the middle name of the former British prime minister and the last name was close enough to the original. He had to admit, she also looked a bit like her, the hair a little less dark and less artfully made, but her face and lips similar, yet nose and eyebrows completely different. She also wasn’t wearing a bead chain, but instead a — though noticeably more modern — woman’s suit.
Felix Witherton, the resident on the other side of the office-flat, looked like he wasn’t even thirty yet, neat, slightly curled hair, light brown eyes and a friendly face — and either having the same fashion taste as Byrd or the same outfitter. Maybe Mycroft got his work clothes delivered in stacks. He wouldn’t be surprised.
None of them was using social media — not with the names they were using nor any other, he had checked it via a photo search — and all of them had been hard to find. He was rather sure that he wouldn’t have had this research problem if he had been able to use VEIL.
He found cars, but they were all registered to Mycroft’s aliases and companies, just like the flats from Witherton and Byrd and obviously the office.
Under the same pseudonym that had been used for Byrd’s flat he found another registered flat a few streets to the southwest and with the help of camera observation he found Anita Ramaswami who was in the area time and time again. He wasn’t able to find the flats of Kevin Hart and Hilda Thacker, even though he used quite arange of further aliases Mycroft liked to use and checking surveillance cameras at random was a time-wasting gamble that he wouldn’t indulge in.
'So … you didn’t find anything about those folks?' John wanted to know now.
'No', he simply answered.
He wasn’t surprised by it. Those were Mycroft’s people. Not idiots — or at least a little bit more clever than the common idiot —, government employees, good at what they were doing or they wouldn’t have been taken for this project. Apart from that they had Mycroft as a watchdog who cleaned away the traces they left skilfully. He knew, his brother was doing the same for him after all.
'This … can’t have taken too long, right?'
'Barely more than an hour.'
'So why didn’t you come back to bed then?'
Did John sound a little accusing? Not much, not according to him at least.
'I checked Slater', he answered, followed John’s telling gaze to his still quite full plate and grabbed the fork to impale one of the sausages and — following John’s gaze — ate it before he continued talking. 'A fire is started in his office while I am there? I’m on to someone. Or the arsonist is thinking that at least. And I met up with Slater because of the Dale Markman-case — which in turn has something to do with VEIL since he wanted to make Adrian Langley disappear. So, at least a customer. A customer of the one who bought VEIL. Consequently it means that — as soon as I found the one who set the fire — I skipped the middleman who sold VEIL and am right at the buyer. What I also checked is-'
His phone rang. With a scowl he threw a gaze at it, then his face brightened up while he jumped to his feet and took the call.
'Slater?' he asked and for a moment there was silence on the other end of the line.
'How did you … I’m using my private-' There was a quiet chortle. 'You’re good, I’ll give you that. Mr Holmes, I’ve been up all night and first had a grapple with the police for the purpose of evidence enrolment, then I went looking for evidence myself. Alas I’m not allowed into my own office, but the firefighters were able to tell me believably that everything’s gone in there. We were barely gone ten minutes and the firefighters were there immediately, so it was definitely more than just a simple fire that was set with a bit of gasoline. Very upsetting, but the insurance will cover it, so don’t you worry about me.'
Sherlock didn’t even worry before Garrett mentioned it, but he only grumbled his agreement and waited impatiently for Slater to come to the point.
'But the reason why I’m contacting you is the case we met about. Markman. As you can imagine, the local data — both paper and digital — is gone, but that doesn’t matter. As soon as I enter or scan something into my computer it is uploaded into the cloud, several times a day, which means that everything is up to date, the last backup was finished less than an hour before you came. So, I went through my files tonight for something that helps us-' Slater paused. 'That helps either you or me, because it is rather conspicuous that my office goes up in flames while I’m working on exactly this case-'
The private investigator paused once more while Sherlock only drummed his fingers against the top of the table impatiently. In secret he was a little happy about the fact that Slater came to the same conclusion as he did. It spoke in favour of his intelligence. If he could only reach his point anytime soon.
'Well, I went through the files once more, as I said. And … I really don’t claim to have such an impressive memory as you do, my dear Mr Holmes, but I can tell you with a hundred per cent certainty — oh, what am I saying, with a one thousand per cent certainty — that the dates are wrong.'
Sherlock pulled his eyebrows together.
'Don’t get me wrong, the files are still there and nothing points to the fact that they’ve been tampered with, but … they’re just wrong. At least one date is wrong, the mileage of one car, with one VIN … well, to be quite honest I’m not sure about that one, but names of buyers, surveillance pictures, … It’s all not real.'
A hard expression settled around his mouth. Someone was very, very thorough in wiping away their traces. There was just one thing that didn’t fit: Why light the office on fire when the data had all been changed? Just as well the arsonist could’ve exchanged the physical data. It would’ve been possible that Slater would’ve never noticed a thing.
When VEIL’s buyer was clever they were checking regularly if someone was after them. Slater seemed to have done so and the answer had followed at once.
'Do you still remember the correct data?' he asked and heard Slater exhale heavily.
'I … I think so. Not … not of everything, I must admit, but a lot. Why-'
'I need the files. In paper. Nothing digital, especially nothing in the Cloud. You can’t be seen duplicating them. And no cameras. No printer with internet or Bluetooth function.'
'Uhm … I guess I can do that, but-'
A car stopping in front of Baker Street made Sherlock look out the window. His eyebrows pulled into a frown. Government car. And that was Mycroft getting out of the compartment in the back and- The person looked familiar to him, but from the current angle he couldn’t identify him. The fire. The changed data. Someone trying to cover their traces. A whole new possibility presented itself.
'I’ll call you back. Hurry up', he told Slater, then he hung up and quickly closed his laptop.
John had followed the happenings with his eyes and had got to his feet to also look out the window. Apparently he had also identified Mycroft — or his car at least, because Sherlock’s brother had already entered the house —, because he threw an alarmed, questioning glance at Sherlock. Wordlessly Sherlock held his pointer finger to his mouth and John nodded dutifully while Sherlock moved the laptop over to his leather chair and sat back in front of his plate to put on a clueless expression while chopping up his fried egg into bite-sized pieces.
He had barely started doing it when he heard a knock on the door.
'Mycroft?' he asked, a sign for his brother to enter (doesn’t make sense to pretend like I don’t know that it’s him, would only make myself suspicious, he knows that I recognise him by his steps and his knock).
The door opened and his brother entered, followed on his foot by the man that Sherlock was now, face to face, able to identify. His face stayed expressionless, John’s eyes instead widened — he obviously also recognised the man —, so he gave him a little kick against his shin below the table. Mycroft’s companion was the man he had met as Matthew Singer months ago in the interrogation room (aka Mycroft’s undercover agent Dylan Wright aka whoever he really is). This time he wasn’t wearing shabby, tatty clothes, no hat and his hairstyle was neat and his face hairless. Sherlock guessed that the beard and hair had been fake and only a wig.
Someone trying to erase their traces. Maybe not the buyer. Maybe someone who didn’t want a certain invention to see the light of day.
'Good morning, Mycroft', he greeted his brother, 'you’re bringing a visitor?'
He watched Wright look around curiously yet in secret while Mycroft entered at a stately pace, noticing the trousers John was still wearing with one single glance (his eyebrow rises unimpressed, appraising, telling, looking down at me), then he sat down at the table with them, opposite of Sherlock, while Wright took the chair next to it.
'How can I help you on this wonderful morning?' he kept talking, unimpressed, and impaled another one of the sausages.
'Dr Watson, don’t you have to go to work soon?' Mycroft asked without taking his eyes off Sherlock.
'By chance it’s Saturday, Mycroft, so no, he does not.'
Sherlock placed a foot on John’s when it seemed like the older one would get to his feet.
'He already knows?' Mycroft sighed.
Sherlock blinked. 'I don’t know what you’re talking about.'
'Of course he does', Mycroft shook his head. 'Sherlock, keep your hands off it.'
'Of what?'
'You know exactly "of what".'
Sherlock was in no mood for their games. He gave the sausage his utmost attention — or at least pretended like he did — while he asked: 'Don’t you think that the fire was a bit over the top?'
Nothing moved on Mycroft’s face, but from the momentary break Sherlock noticed that he was wrong in his assumption. Mycroft didn’t order the fire. Then who?
'In addition to the changed files, of course.'
Here he hit home.
'Sherlock, I’m telling you to leave your hands-'
'It’s got to do with my case.'
'What case?'
'Adrian Langley. I’m sure you know the name.'
He saw the thoughts spiralling in Mycroft’s head.
'I guess-' Sherlock gave Dylan Wright a short, yet meaningful glance. '-Elise told you about my guess?'
'She did. Even though it wasn’t the first thing she did as it seems.'
Sherlock put on a winning, yet triumphant smile, then he kept talking. 'Very good. Then I don’t have to explain the Langley-case to you.'
He could tell by the look in his brother’s eyes that he wanted to talk. About the case. About VEIL. About his assumptions. That he didn’t and was obviously biting his tongue told him more about how dicey the VEIL project really was. Mycroft barely had anyone who was superior to him, but he doubted that those few people were in the loop of what he was doing.
Their gazes met, Sherlock’s in pretended boredom, Mycroft’s frustrated, but both with a hard sparkle. Neither of them would give in; Sherlock wouldn’t leave the case and everything that came with it be and Mycroft wouldn’t give up his project or would know it endangered.
'Who knows of it?'
VEIL was meant. What else.
'Everyone in the room I’d dare say.' Sherlock’s gaze moved over to Wright meaningfully. 'Plus your employees. Plus whoever you and your employees told about it.' He took a sip from the tea. Almost cold, but he was used to it. 'Oh, and of course the person who’s also owning it and whoever they told.'
'What about your friends from the pol-'
'Really, Mycroft?' he interrupted him, raising an eyebrow, and saw his brother exhale and how his shoulders sagged slightly. Relief.
'Okay. That’s still more people than I would like, but okay. What’s your plan?'
Amused Sherlock raised an eyebrow and enjoyed stalling some more, keeping Mycroft on tenterhooks by taking another sip from his tea.
'Find the seller and then the buyer. Isn’t that obvious?'
Or potentially the other way around. And he also had a plan for how to. He didn’t let it show though. Not as long as Mycroft was here. The changed data and the fire. One was Mycroft’s idea. The other wasn’t. Oh yes, he had a plan.
'But I guess you’re not here to ask for my help?' he added, hoping that Mycroft would finally say what he had to say.
'No. Originally I came to keep you from helping, but as I know you it’s a useless endeavour.'
'Correct.'
'Not a word to the police.'
'Of course.'
'And nobody else. Outside this room.'
Mycroft’s gaze had moved over to John meaningfully, knowing fully well that the doctor would learn of Sherlock’s progress either way.
'Naturally.'
Mycroft sighed heavily.
'You’ll keep me posted on your results?'
This time it sounded more like a question.
'Of course.'
'Do you need help-'
'The real names of the people working on it.'
He stuck to Mycroft’s game of cat-and-mouse about VEIL’s name. Mycroft’s face hardened.
'I can’t give them to you.'
'Then no, I don’t need help.'
He wasn’t surprised. Quite the opposite, he would’ve been almost disappointed if Mycroft had given in.
'So if you leave now I can finish my breakfast and get to work.'
John’s gaze that met his from the corners of his eyes told him that they would be talking about the getting to work part (I’m far from tired yet, sleeping can wait, I have a lead, I just bring him along when the lead brings results, then he isn’t complaining).
Mycroft didn’t look happy with the outcome of the conversation, but in less than two minutes he was first out of the flat and then gone from Baker Street (I checked it with a look out the window). Leaving the breakfast behind he gathered his laptop from his chair and brought it back to the table, pushing away the plate, then he logged back into Safiya Burington’s account and found the videos of Waterloo Station with a few more clicks and from the opposite side of the street.
'Sherlock?' John interrupted his clicking and typing.
'Hmm?' he answered and then not much more.
'Would you mind explaining to me what’s going on?'
In quick succession he summarised the situation.
'Slater called earlier if you remember; the files on the Markman-case he’s working on were corrupted; Mycroft just confessed to that; don’t look at me like that, he did, I know him; why should he set a fire?; yes, I did think for a moment that he did; so if it’s not him wanting to erase traces, who else wants to?; either the seller or the buyer; I’m guessing the buyer; hmm, there’s nobody coming in on the camera, just me, also nobody coming out, but there are more entrances into the house; here, a camera on Cornwall Street, that’s me and Slater leaving the house … and now …'
His eyes lit up.
'Bingo, someone’s coming out. And it’s-' His eyebrows pulled into a frown. 'Oh, that’s interesting.'
'What’s interesting?'
Sherlock waved John over to him and paused the surveillance video. He didn’t even have the time to ask John if he recognised the person when he had already called out: 'Isn’t that the one from the photo? Wait …'
'Witherton', Sherlock helped him out. 'Felix Witherton. Yes, that’s him all right.'
He barely discovered it when he wanted to get to his feet to be on his way, straight down to Witherton’s flat next to the office-flat, but John put a spoke in his wheels. Hands on his shoulders pressed him back down on the chair and John’s left thumb pressed so appositely into a pressure point in his shoulder that it couldn’t be a coincidence (of course it’s not a coincidence, John can probably call all the nerve pathways by name that he’s currently crushing).
Incongruous to it there was a kiss to the top of his head.
'Hold your horses', John told him conversationally, almost gently, but with an undertone that Sherlock immediately identified as Captain Watson. 'First there’ll be tea and breakfast.'
'It’s almost empty.'
'I wouldn’t consider this almost. I might not be able to tell you to the gramme how much you gained or lost weight, but I do notice when you do. Eat up.' John’s lips moved down to his ear. 'Now', he was ordered and a surge shot through his body, so much so that he had to pinch his lips tightly shut so as to not make a sound.
Abruptly his body tensed up. The pressure on his nerve pathways ceased and John grabbed the plate to exchange it with the laptop.
'Eat up. I’ll go get ready now, all right? Then we can be on our way more quickly.'
Manipulation. There was no other way to name it.
He gave John’s back view a meek glance before he impaled several pieces of fried egg at once and pushed them into his mouth.
While John had been occupying the bath he had sent a message to Helena, asking her if she was at work. It was by now just before eight in the morning and he hoped that it was one of those Saturdays where she was present, and if only to find the seller and not to work, but she let him know within a minute that she wasn’t there.
"Why?"
"Got reasonable suspicion against Witherton. Arson at Slater’s yesterday. SH."
"I see. Officially he isn’t on shift now. I’ll go to the office to find out where he is."
"Good. SH."
He didn’t inform Mycroft — yet. This was his case and to be honest he saw his brother more like an unofficial client than a partner in it.
"Not in the office.", Helena let him know when they just got into the cab.
He confirmed that he got the text and within two minutes he got the information that Witherton walked into his flat six hours ago and hadn’t left it since. She had checked with the cameras in the hallway, not by ringing his doorbell or something similarly stupid.
"I guess you’re already on the way here?"
"I am. SH."
"You don’t always have to add your initials. I know who I’m texting with."
"Habit."
This time he didn’t add his initials.
"Is Dr Watson with you?"
"Yes. Problem?"
"No. I don’t care, I just wanted to know."
What was he supposed to answer to that?
Helena saved him from having to answer by asking about their estimated time of arrival.
"Five minutes and about thirty seconds.", he let her know and she answered that she would be at the door in five minutes to open it up for them.
With quiet words Sherlock updated John and explained the little flat’s layout to him.
'Do you think that he’s going to fight back? Tries to flee?'
Sherlock raised his shoulder.
'Potentially. He works for Mycroft, I doubt he was doing desk work all day long. If I think about it, he probably has a gun. Maybe it would’ve been better if you’d brought your own.'
The gaze John gave him confirmed his suspicion and made him grin in satisfaction. Of course John had brought his gun. Reliable as always.
He had sent the cab down Fairfax Road a bit more to first check the surroundings, but driving by the house it looked deserted, soaked in the murky London morning light. Impatiently he waited until John paid the cabbie and it drove off, then they turned the few hundred yards north towards Mycroft’s office- and employee complex where they arrived at the entrance door six seconds after the estimated time of arrival that he had named. Before his shadow even touched the door it was opened from the inside and Helena’s face appeared.
'Sherlock. Dr Watson', she nodded to both of them, her voice quiet so that it wouldn’t echo in the staircase.
From the corners of his eyes he saw yet again that John was weirdly wary when it came to Helena’s use of his first name and with a glance at Helena he realised that she had noticed it as well.
For a moment he wondered if John would grab him by his wrist, whirl him around and kiss him, just like he had done yesterday for Sally and Philip.
John held himself back. Maybe because of the camera that was so obviously hanging in the entrance area or because he considered a display of possessiveness like that childish and immature.
'He’s still inside', Helena let him know. 'And I don’t have keys for the flat.'
'That’s fine. I’ve got one.'
Surprised Helena raised an eyebrow.
'Do you?'
Halfway up the stairs — and away from the angle of the entrance camera — he took out his lockpick set halfway and showed it to her.
'I see', she nodded while their little convoy went up the stairs and the conversation died away.
John didn’t need any instructions from him. This was far from the first time that they entered a flat like that. John pulled his gun, cocked it and held it loosely in front of him so that someone coming down the stairs wouldn’t see it while he stood in front of Sherlock in a way that made it possible for him to get to work with the lock of the door unhassled as soon as he put his gloves on.
Double-locked, but not much of a problem for him.
He gestured to Helena to stay back, then he gave John one last look. He got a nod as an answer and moved the lockpick one last time which made the door open lightly with a quiet click. Still on his knees so as to not get in John’s line of fire he gave the door a little shove. It moved — then it stopped abruptly and with a glance up he noticed that the door chain was put in place.
With a nod in its direction he looked up at John and with a few looks and gestures they decided on the further proceedings.
Sherlock pointed to Helena to disappear further away from the direct entrance door radius, then he drew his pocket knife, pulled the door closed again until it was only open a crack, took half a step back to gain momentum and then kicked in the door with force before he took his half-step back again and to the side while John hurried into the short corridor with his weapon drawn, apparently not finding anything there and moving over to the door to the sitting room.
Knowing that he would only be in the way in a gunfight without a gun of his own when John had to worry about him getting shot he stayed back a bit, even though not a lot, while John worked his way through the house, the small bathroom, the kitchen — everything quiet and silent, even though the flat looked everything but deserted. Bits and bobs everywhere, an unwashed plate and a glass, a toothbrush and toothpaste in a jar in the bathroom and an electric razor that was plugged into the socket for charging.
John stopped in front of the closed bedroom door. They had been in the flat for over thirty seconds and even if Felix had been sleeping, he would’ve most likely woken up from them bursting through the door and its chain. A trap then. Or-
With a nod he stood on the other side of the door, close to the handle, and following John’s answering nod he grabbed the door handle, the two men glanced at each other one last time, then he opened it and gave it a light shove while John stormed into the room with his gun ahead — and then stopped abruptly.
Without having to look into the room itself he knew that it was the or.
'Sherlock!' he heard John call out in alarm and he followed his friend into the room.
Rolling his eyes the younger one sighed. This was making matters more complicated.
Felix Witherton was there. But he wouldn’t be able to help them. He was lifelessly hanging from a rope off the ceiling.