DISCLAIMER & SUCH:
This is a work of fiction. If it resembles you in any way, I envy you. These are not my characters, they don't belong to me nor do I make any money from them.
This is a bit of crack that hit me sometime late last night. It's supposed to be funny and a little bit dirty. I apologize if it's neither. It you are reading TO DO OR NOT TO DO, the events in this story occur sometime during February 2006 (between chapter 34 and 35). Please drop me a line if you enjoy it. Thanks!
Ear Candy Meet Nose Candy
~1~
UNDEDUCIBLE
"WHAT?! YOUR'RE… NO. THAT'S… UNACCEPTABLE!" Sherlock bares his teeth. He spins, snapping his coattails dramatically and then storms off, presumably to embrace his wholehearted disgust somewhere more amenable.
John stands stock still, trapped by wonder and awe. Something's caught him and it feels like he's being reeled in. What is that smell? He wonders. He looks around for the source. A handful of seconds pass where John is suspended in time. However, once he regains control over his senses, he eagerly introduces himself. He sticks out his hand. "Dr. John Watson. It's an honour—no, a pleasure to meet you." He chirps, his smile brighter than ever. "I've never seen him so stumped." He couldn't help the grin. He's giddy. He is utterly joyous. Sherlock—speechless—well, nearly—as speechless as he's ever been. Stumped. At the very least.
JACK TAKES THE PROFFERED HAND, shakes it well. Holds on. "I'm not sure I understand." He chuckles, in spite of himself. On second thought and on closer inspection he decides he doesn't need to understand. He just needs a little… His mega-watt grin lights up the street.
John, oblivious as usual, continues on blindly, and finds himself the potential victim of Jack's accelerated libido. Unwittingly, he steps into range of Jack's advanced sex pheromones, which are currently revving unfettered and accelerating at an unprecedented rate due to an untimely sexual time-out.
At present, Jack is all kinds of sullen. He's fighting the inevitable, on principle. He's a wayward calf desperately trying to avoid the inevitable sting of the lasso. This obligation may be unavoidable but he'll be dammed if he doesn't drag his feet the whole way there. Every day this week, he'll attend the Annual Senior Director's Meetings being held in London while Ianto, his unbelievably sexy lover, is required by familial contractual obligation, to attend his sister's husband's brother's wedding, simultaneously being held in Cardiff. These concurrent mandatory functions have thrown a bit of a wrinkle into their usually well-oiled sexual shenanigans. As in, there haven't been any—for days.
IN DAYS PAST, this simply wouldn't have been a problem for Jack. There were line-ups, cues, lines, everywhere, even now, even years after initial contact had been made. Those lucky individuals, having once been exposed to Jack's unparalleled sexual prowess, were left quivering, desperate and ready to wait an eternity for another crack at the cat—even a nice petting—perhaps a little scratch under the chin. He could literally walk out onto the street, or into any establishment, whether it is a nightclub or a coffee shop and have availed to him a prime selection of delectable sexual partner(s), at the mere snap of a few nimble fingers.
But now, he's in a relationship.
John's usually near adequate mind is quickly being ravaged by Jack's seductive aromatic presence and is fast approaching the mental acuity of Jell-O. His other senses, now released from their previous master's steady control, race about willy-nilly, wreaking havoc with his speech centres and locomotion.
LIFE HASN'T BEEN THE SAME SINCE HE MET SHERLOCK. With varying degrees of uncertain pleasure, John regularly finds himself entangled in a fairly broad spectrum of sticky situations ranging from the slightly tacky strip of a damp sticky note to the unforgiving grip of an ultra-bond cement so he is quick to pull out his ever-present mobile at the first sign of trouble. His fingers at the ready, he prepares for a sending. He attempts a retrieval of the standard protocol for typing a text message. The information is not forthcoming. Red flags are flapping everywhere. There is a disconnect somewhere between his fingers and his heavily engorged phallic member hanging somewhere below his bellybutton. Apparently, it is redirecting blood-flow away from his brain, severely restricting mental processes related to memory storage, organization and retrieval.
Recognizing a dangerous situation when he sees one, he instead presses the little green button usually reserved for other-people. Around the corner, under a tree, on a bench, facing north, Sherlock is still scowling and ranting uproariously at his mental projection of John.
THE RINGING SOUND, usually reserved for not-his-people, barely registers through the symphonic clamour of his fully operational Mind Palace. However, due to the physical absence of his John he makes an allowance, allots an unutilized portion of his mental faculties (usually reserved for wiping his ass) and checks the caller-ID on his phone. John. John never calls. When he can text. John couldn't. Text. Dammit John. Always getting into trouble. Without me. John. My John. Where are you John?
He answers the call with a quick, "Yes?" but John doesn't speak. In the background however, he can hear THAT MAN. Unacceptable. THAT MAN. WRONG. WRONG. MAN.
He jumps down from his shaded perch, under the tree, around the corner and retraces his steps back to John's last verified position. Exactly 602 seconds later, he finds John. He is standing very, very close to THAT MAN. Unacceptably close. He is still holding his phone, it hangs limply by his side. "Difficult to project your voice into the receiver from all the way down there John." Silly John.
The sound of Sherlock's voice startles John out of his trance-like state, which was induced by the sudden overload of his olfactory receptors. He's been staring into those eyes since Sherlock left and he hasn't moved a muscle. On the inside, he's been struggling to remain in control. He's been cataloguing all the ways that HE-IS-NOT-GAY and it is taking a great deal of effort. He silently hopes Sherlock doesn't look down, at his crotch, which is refusing to listen to his perfectly straight(ish) brain which is quite insistent that (1) he is definitely NOT-GAY and (2) is not attracted to this strangely intoxicating man. His crotch has other ideas. They'll be having a chat about that later. He knows the odds aren't in his favour (about the looking down bit). Sherlock always sees everything.
"WHY IS HE SO GRUMPY?" The question slips innocently from Jack's lips, dulcet tones wrapped in a thick sticky cloud of honey. John feels the cloud wrap around his cock, too. He groans and his breath catches in his throat. He is absolutely parched, desperate for some honey. It takes a few seconds for meaning to filter through to his muddled brain. Light dawns and flickers somewhere above his shoulders. Jack chuckles softly, never once losing eye contact.
"He can't deduce you." He sighs dreamily. Licks his lips. Inhales deeply and thinks of honey.
Sherlock takes another step towards the pair. Something is definitely NOT RIGHT with his John. He circles, moving silently, a predatory feline. He surveys. Collects data. The data is inconclusive. Contradictory. Erroneous. Too many missing variables. Unacceptable. He approaches Jack from behind, looks over his shoulder and examines John's face. His John. "Who are you?" he hisses. Anger and suspicion leave his voice deep and gravelly, to most ears. But to John, the question rolls out from between those luscious lips, soft and smooth. John thinks of caramel. Hot. Creamy. Sweet. He sees the words slide over Jack's shoulder, wrap around his throat, caress his skin like a silk scarf, just brushing against the surface, leaving tingles in its wake. He opens his mouth, desperate for a taste. John can hardly breathe. Sherlock narrows in on John's bleary eyes. He looks drugged. Not himself. At all.
WITHOUT WAITING FOR A REPLY, SHERLOCK PUSHES JACK OUT OF THE WAY. John yelps in surprise and steps back, a reflex only. He'd never step back from Sherlock. Not on purpose. Sherlock takes him by the shoulders. Jack stands to the side watching and hums, disappointed now that the spell has been broken. Sherlock's eyes are full of concern. And something else. Sherlock envelops him, pulls him close and brings his lips against John's ear. When Sherlock whispers, warm breath caresses, sends shivers over sensitive skin. John hears soft, warm caramel. "Come. John. Home." John's toes curl in his boots.
TBC