Salt, Fire, Babies & Evil

~ Fire ~

"We don't have enough hands to do this."

Sherlock grunted, tried to reach around John. "We…do. If you'd just lean forward a little…I can nearly touch it."

John leaned forward a little, winced a lot, shoved his back against Sherlock's front. "No, no, no, you're going to break me in half."

The long man made a long arm round his lover, bending him hard over the edge of the kitchen table. "Just move to the right and—"

John hissed as hot wax drizzled over his skin. "Sherlock I'm-Going-to-Kill-You-Now Holmes, I am now wounded in action. I am hurt. You have hurt me. Are you happy?

Sherlock pointedly did not tell John that he'd accidentally dribbled hot wax down his own neck sixteen seconds ago. It did not seem wise.

"All right. Just stop moving. Stop. We're mostly smart men, one of us may possibly even be a genius—"

An annoyed grunt from the genius.

"—if we stop and think for just a second we can figure this out."

They stopped. They thought.

Minutes later…

"Okay, great, fine, this should work. Are you ready now?"

A spidery conglomeration of arms and legs, Sherlock shifted his bum on the kitchen table, gripped the thing in his left hand more firmly.

"Now?"

Sherlock spread one lean leg slightly wider. Wriggled a bit, spread it a little more.

"Now?"

He adjusted the thing in his right hand, then clenched his crazy prehensile toes tight around the lit candle.

"Now?"

The consulting detective tutted in exasperation. "What is your hurry, John?"

There are no rhetorical questions at 221B. So of course John answered. "There's fire, as in fire on our kitchen table. I've already been indirectly burned, you've already been indirectly burned—"

Sherlock will never get used to John's seeing, not when everyone else is so blind.

"—and you're sitting there in nothing but those pretty purple pants I bought you last year and a nice shirt that would probably go up a right treat, and you wonder why I want to get this over with?"

Sherlock frowned. John had a point about the flammability of the linen.

Carefully placing the bowl of bat guano and the turkey baster of egg albumen onto the table, Sherlock stripped off his shirt. He thought briefly about removing his pants—

"If you take those pants off and I have to watch you accidentally set fire to your genital hair again I'm leaving you. I will go and find a man who's dumb as a post and gets the Financial Times for the pictures and watches daytime telly at night with a little cat on his lap and drinks decaffeinated tea with plain biscuits because the other kind give him heartburn and I will forget all about the smell of your blazing privates and the sound of my own screams and I will be so bored I may want to set myself on fire but at least I'll know what to expect day in and day out. Are we clear?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, great big brows lowered like storm clouds. "You've given this some thought."

John sighed, reflected that he had not seen his life going in precisely this direction. "No, not really. I'm just wildly fanciful, remember?"

A term Sherlock may or may not have used three and a half times last week in regards to John's blog.

"Now, can we continue or would you like to sort of set your entire limb in wax?"

Sherlock glanced down at the lit candle clenched in the no-seriously-they're-crazy-long-and-prehensile toes of his right foot. White wax oozed from it, to the table, and had—while John talked about leaving—gathered in a hot pool round his heel. That explained his moderate-to-intense discomfort of the last half minute. Right. Well then. It was time to experiment before something bad happened.

"Now listen closely John, in order to verify the suspect's alibi we have to do this exactly as she said she did it. So when I say three, I'll squeeze the albumen over the guano. You wait one second—no more, no less—and inject the vinegar, then the gunpowder. Vinegar. Gunpowder. Then we'll see if the proximity of the flame even matters. I really bet it doesn't."

"One…two…three."

Oh damn-hell, it so completely did.

...

~ Evil ~

"I didn't even know toenails and fingernails could burn."

"Shhhhh."

The alley was dark, damp, and dirty. Alleys always are.

It was raining. The overhang above them did not hang over quite enough. They were soaked right through.

"I mean I'm a doctor. Technically I should have known that."

"Shhhhhhhhh."

The thief was due down the alley in precisely ten minutes.

"I also now know that simple candle wax makes a very lovely furniture polish. Really, the kitchen table's never looked so good. Another thing I—"

Sherlock just gave up and put his hand over John's mouth. Which was really rather good because the thief showed up early.

After that many, many things happened quickly, and then one thing moved as slow as cold treacle.

First the thief's three compatriots showed up almost immediately, then one was so eagle-eyed he spotted John and Sherlock behind the skip without so much as their toe-tips showing.

They moved fast, those men, their shouts loud in that close space, their flying fists invisible in shadow.

John and Sherlock gave as good as they got, gave better really because they were faster, and so there were shouts of pain, there was a dash and scramble for the stolen item, there was success, and the men of 221B were actually grinning as they turned sharp on their heels, ran toward the end of the alley and then, right then, the shot rang out and everything froze except Sherlock's fast and fluttering heart.

Open-eyed, slow-blinking, he turned in time to see John twist around hard, harsh, angles all wrong as his hands went up, striking the alley wall and even though he knew it was impossible because he was much closer to the gun when it went off than John was and so his ears were no doubt ringing, even so Sherlock knew he heard it when John's forehead struck that god damn brick wall, it was exactly that loud, and Sherlock knew bullet had met bone and that in the next instant John would fold at the knees and the waist and neck—precisely in those spots, Sherlock knew this because he'd seen it dozens of times looking down at dozens of dead bodies bent just in those places and maybe he'd seen too many, he realized, maybe he'd seen far too many corpses collapsed down and in and on themselves because in death muscles won't keep you upright and your body will fall naturally along its simple folds and so he waited for John's body to do exactly that but John didn't, he didn't fall, he turned instead and looked toward Sherlock, eyes wide with panic but Sherlock was fine, it was good, it was all good—and then time moved as time ought and in a flash they were gone, the silly rare shell that would never be worth dying for shoved deep in John's pocket and later their client would thank them with a bonus big enough to cover the rent for a year but right then, right then, both men ran into the night, their heads and hearts suddenly full of all the riches they'd ever need.

...

~ Babies ~

John tended to his own split lip and eyebrow.

Standing in the doorway of the loo, arms tight across his chest, Sherlock squinted through long lashes, watched the good doctor sew the wound over his eye shut. He was anomalously quiet as John kept up a running commentary, the good doctor both stone cold sober and so full of adrenaline he was as sloshed as a squirrel on fermented nuts.

"—and I can't believe you didn't hear yourself! You were yelling like a blue-painted Pict, so help me."

He'd numbed the area with a topical cream, but each time John pushed the needle through his own brow Sherlock grunted, a low deep sound.

"—you were a brilliant banshee, I swear to god. I almost started applauding. Jessup was so stunned I just plucked that stupid shell out of his pocket like I was taking candy from a kid—"

It was only three stitches, and they were small. As a matter of fact they barely showed. Sherlock felt nauseous anyway.

"—the gun scared the shit out of me though. Every time I figure I've got the criminal element sussed they do something like that—"

John dabbed at the stitches with some iodine. He winced. Now he winced. He'd kept a stoic face through the entire surgery portion of his visit with Dr. Watson, and now he winced in pain. Sherlock bit his tongue to keep from talking.

"—I mean thieves aren't supposed to shoot people, right? One crime isn't like a gateway drug to another, that's what you're always telling me. Robbers rob, arsonists arson, and generally everyone sticks close to their own little world of bad. There. Perfect."

The small man stood tall, gazed at himself in the mirror, liked what he saw. "I look devil may care. Sort of bad arse. It suits me."

Right about then most of John's bravado and all of his adrenaline high dissipated. He slumped against the wall in that over-bright loo and muttered, "God I'm tired." And yet the good doctor smiled.

"Nothing quite like a violent tussle in an alley to make you want a good dinner, a decent shag, and maybe someone to carry on the old family name, you know." John's smile quirked. "Hits me sometimes, that. Did tonight. The idea that it'd be nice if there was someone to carry on after us, you know? Know what we did and who we were."

John's voice had not gone precisely wistful, just a bit meditative. Then he yawned and laughed. "Then I think, no thank you, babies are all well and good, but at forty it'd be—"

"Shut up John."

John huffed-laughed. He rolled his head along the wall, reached out and lightly rapped his knuckles against Sherlock's chest. "Hey, you, be nice. It's been a long night."

Sherlock shook his head, first one direction then another, knowing exactly what he meant to say but not saying it.

"I was joking 'bout the baby bit. And the decent shag bit. You're a bit better than decent, you're—"

"Shut the fuck up, John."

John went right ahead and shut the fuck up out of sheer surprise.

Sherlock stalked off, trailed immediately by a man whose jaw quite literally hung open.

"It's not a god damn joke, John."

Sherlock stood utterly still for one long second, then started pacing the sitting room in tiny erratic circles, caged by his own rage. "It's not a fucking joke to, to, to joke about. Dying is dead."

Every instinct told John to reach out, but he didn't. Most wounds are best cleaned by bleeding a little.

"And babies don't do anything but puke and piss. They won't keep you safe or make you immortal or bring you back if you die."

Each foot fall was heavy, as if the thin man carried a thousand pounds, as if his anger and his pain had actual weight.

"Because dying is dead John, and nothing fixes that, nothing ever, ever fixes that."

John concentrated on breathing and not reaching out, breathing and not reaching out.

"I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. John, John, John…"

John reached out.

...

~ Salt ~

Every couple has their own little…predilections.

John licked. "Perfect."

This was one of theirs.

Wrapped round each other in the dark, Sherlock licked his own skin, just left of the wet spot John left. "No. Not seasoned enough."

Sometimes, after a chase—and there really aren't as many as legend would allow, but there are a fair few—they'll come home and very pointedly not wash off the adrenaline and the night mist, the dust and the smoke and the sweat.

Their spit still damp on his long arm, Sherlock wriggled till the bed springs squeaked. He dipped his face to his lover's neck, swiped a broad tongue over John's jugular vein. "Now there, that's perfect."

John laughed low, murmured, "No fair, I can't get at my own neck, how'm I gonna taste if…"

Sherlock nibbled behind the spot he'd licked, made a soft needy sound.

Words. Words…what are they? John temporarily wasn't sure.

"I'll tell you what's here then," Sherlock whispered, biting soft again, tongue tip darting out right after. "Mmm…bravery. I taste bravery." Sherlock licked again. "And tea." He kissed a trail from John's neck to jaw to chin, licked there next, his tongue rasping over a day's growth of beard. "I taste patience—too much of that—and also temper. I'd have expected more of that honestly."

The good doctor laughed soft, shifted until he was on his back on the bed, arms and legs spread, a buffet on offer. Sherlock grinned, rose, hovered over him, then dipped his face to a nipple, licked.

"Need…never expected that. And I didn't expect it to taste this good. Amazing." He sucked the other small bud into his mouth, ruminating. "Tea again. How do you do that? Taste of tannins and bergamot and milk?"

John laughed, tried to tug Sherlock up, but the good detective resisted, fascinated by those nipples and the goosebumps painting John's ribs in tiny shadows.

Then he relented, followed the pull of strong hands, laid himself long over John.

"Salt. We need more salt, don't you think?" asked the good doctor, pressing his legs tight against Sherlock's hips.

Remember, there are no rhetorical questions at 221B. And what do you know, John Watson just happened to have a hand slicked up well and good with lube and so he answered his own question with action. He reached between them and put that lube to the purpose for which it was intended.

Sherlock huffed out a low breath. Jesus, Joseph, and Mary he really was rather ready.

"You're really rather ready there, my love."

Sherlock growled. "Shut up John, and get that hand off me. I've got places to go with this thing."

About five seconds later this thing was put to the purpose for which it was intended. And that was to roll John's eyes up nearly to the back of his head.

"Oh dear god yes."

The bed squeaked a lot. That was new. Sherlock moaned a lot. That wasn't. Pounding away inside the good doctor, Sherlock swore a blue streak. That was new. John chanted, "Oh god, oh god, oh dear fucking god." That wasn't. Sherlock fisted two hands in John's hair and drove in harder. That was new. John responded to the fuck-yes pleasure by scratching his lover's back. That wasn't. Sherlock made a mess of things, coming far faster than he usually did. That was new. He shook and groaned and pushed deep as the orgasm took its sweet time playing out. That so very much was not.

Afterward he tucked his head at John's neck, tickled the good doctor's nose and mouth with that rampant mess of hair, and long minutes later, just as John felt Sherlock's muscles go soft and figured that was it for the night, his lover raised that shaggy head and licked at John's sweat-slick shoulder, "Salt. Salt. Salt. I need…I need…"

They both groaned with pleasure-pain as Sherlock pulled out, then the long man slithered slow down the small man's body until breath pooled hot at a still-quite-hard-thanks-so-much cock.

"…I need…"

You could have been in that bed with those men, you could have been lying right next to John Watson or just about on top of Sherlock Holmes and still you wouldn't have heard the last few words he said before Sherlock slid a hot mouth over an even hotter erection. But the one man who needed to hear it did, and later he would answer, but right now all John did was spread his legs wider and fill his hands with a beautiful, crazy, sweaty mess of dark hair and smile as Sherlock whispered, "I need…I need…

"…you."

This fic was inspired by Mark Gatiss' frankly god damn brilliant tweet: "A long day involving salt, fire, babies & evil. Actually, pretty much an average day." And because I need to start another series like I need flaming privates, I'll start writing stories based off great tweets (Tweets? "A Little Birdie Told Me...get it? *cough*) by the writers, directors, producers, or actors of Sherlock. If you come across any you think wonderful, please share!