Like an Alley Cat in a Tuba (Continuation of Where It's Always $18.95)
"Now?"
"Just a bit longer. We want to ensure his gratitude."
"Really, My. I think we have enough footage, and he is starting to yowl like an alley cat in a tuba."
"Yes, the acoustics in the pool are rather exceptional."
"And he's your brother, after all."
"Yes… indeed," Mycroft said, with a sly smile and a hesitation that sounded almost like delayed gratification. "Well, I suppose we had better save him now."
"I still can't believe you were right about John," Greg said. "He sure had me fooled. That man deserves a fuckin' BAFTA. Let's go."
Mycroft, having anticipated this turn of events long ago, had already contacted the interested parties. He advised Lestrade to segment the footage into clips. This took some time, as he was not particularly good at division. He then sent off a small sample (when the tentacles first grabbed Sherlock's shoulder) via text and awaited a response.
Sally's came first.
You're sure there are no dinosaurs in this? Because I've had it with the dinosaurs and if this tentacle thing ends up looking anything at all like some tentacle-dinosaur I want a bloody refund.
No dinosaurs. Just a torturous struggle.
I don't care if it's torturous or sheer bliss. I just want to see that fine arse naked.
Oh yes, he's very naked. Bidding starts at 20, yeah?
Well, count me in.
The text from Molly came a little later.
There's more of this?
Much more. And plenty of nudity.
But pain, right? That wanker isn't enjoying himself in it, is he?
Oh, no. Most definitely not.
Good. Whatever the bid is, I'll double it.
"You and Greg?" Sherlock was genuinely surprised. He'd been more than a little off his game lately, after being completely blindsided by his best friend turning out to be his mortal enemy. Not to mention being so recently saved from an amorous bona fide tentacle monster. This might have also thrown him off a bit." I thought you were sleeping with… whatever her name is. Surely it isn't really Anthea?"
"Her name is Tootie."
"What?!"
"I distinctly remember you having this very same conversation about not repeating oneself with John," Mycroft checks his watch, "56 minutes ago."
"You were present during that?" Sherlock asks. This is more than a bit not good.
"Yes, Greg and I both were."
He swallows hard.
"Her real name, is Tootie, Sherrrr-lock," he says. taken. "And I like a little variety. As does Greg. We have a special evening planned."
Sherlock is about to leave them to their fun, but Mycroft is moving gradually towards the front door while he speaks… "I could easily afford both the rent boy and the rent, but Greg is interested in you, and has been for some time now. And I… well, we needn't concern ourselves with societal mores, surely we are above such things. It would indeed be rather fascinating to be able to… deduce one's needs… don't you think? I much prefer coercion to force, and free will to coercion."
Sherlock shoots him a silent glare which speaks volumes.
"Ah, you're right. Coercion is more fun. See what I mean, you know me so well," the smile is affectionate. "I have to hand it to Greg, it never would have occurred to me if he hadn't of insisted sandwiches are better than cake," he says with another, more predatory grin. "I've become quite the video producer as of late. Perhaps I could take this off the auction block," he says, holding up a small recorder. "And there's that small matter of your timely rescue. Well… almost timely."
Sherlock weighs his options.
Later that evening, a black car stops in front of 221B Baker Street and a tall, slightly disheveled man in a black coat and blue scarf staggers out.
Sherlock reflexively seeks the solace of his violin. "A-2-2 … 3-1-1 …" he recites, as he plays a heartbreaking rendition of "Lightly Row." At the song's conclusion he is tempted to toss the instrument on the couch in a fit of pique, but instead gently wipes the rosin off the strings with a soft cloth and loosens the bow, turning the endscrew (or button) until the frog slides toward the leather thumb grip and silvery lapping (or wrap). The ferrule and shimmering mother-of-pearl pastille (or eye) slide as the Mongolian horsehair's tension is released from its Brazilian handcrafted Pernambuco stick. He anchors the bow in its case, places the violin in its cradle, closes it and latches it. He places the case flat on the ground. The quiet of the flat is jarring.
He somehow manages to change into his blue silk dressing gown, pajama bottoms, an old comfy t-shirt… and curls up fetal on the couch.
John is gone.
The John he thought he knew never existed.
The cupboard remains well-stocked with jam, this he knows, but who will go get the milk now? His body convulses in sobs.