Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: If you enjoy AU steampunk, please check out my Johnlock 'The Nautilus Adventure'! And if that fanfic brought you here, thanks!
If I happen to go OOC on you, please tell me! Never written a fanfic from mostly Sherlock's POV before. Double thanks!
Sherlock sipped at the red wine in his 'too fancy' crystal glass. He hated exhibitions of his work, although he was loath to admit it, he did enjoy all the attention. The only major problem, was that half the time, the compliments were little more than brown nosing. Simpletons trying to flatter him into painting their (or a family members') portrait.
His lip curled up involuntarily and a sigh dragged itself from his lips. Sherlock tipped back the rest of his wine and was about to make his way back inside when voices caught his attention.
"I'm not going to ask the man to draw you, Mary." A man's voice said in a loud 'I'm trying not to yell, but you're making it difficult' voice.
"You're not even going to ask him once! I can't believe you!" The woman on the other hand had no problem with screeching at the top of her lungs. "I've had it with you! We're through!" Sherlock could hear retreating footsteps and a glass shattering on the pavement.
Unable to stop his curiosity, Sherlock peaked around one of the bushes that been hiding the confrontation from view. It was a man in his mid to late twenties. Sherlock saw the glass around his feet and the wine that had splashed up onto his jeans.
He had sandy brown hair, sideburns and a bit of stubble that stood out in the dim lighting. He wore a black jacket with a dark red scarf. His jeans were tight and Sherlock's eyes lingered longer than necessary on the stranger's ass.
Instead of looking sad, Sherlock noticed a look of frustration and a bit of relief on his face. Obviously he had wanted to break it off but was afraid of hurting her feelings. How dull. The stranger before him was clearly average, but Sherlock still felt a strong pull to talk to him. Of its own accord, his body pushed its way through the foliage and to the mysterious man.
"That was quite the scene."
The man whipped his head around and faced Sherlock.
Sherlock was instantly drawn to the man's eyes. From far away he had only seen the outline of his facial features, but up close Sherlock was amazed at how deep and blue the other man's eyes were.
"Sorry about that mate." He clinched his jaw. "She was always a bit of a drama queen."
Sherlock gave a polite laugh. Average. His mind reminded him. "Do your dates always end so smashingly well?"
The man's face scrunched up. Sherlock knew he was going to get yelled at, called a rude name and the other man would stomp away; much like how the woman just had. Instead, he began to laugh. Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion.
"'Smashingly well'? You are a cheeky bastard!" He continued to laugh and his shoulders shook.
Sherlock coughed into his curled hand. "I suppose." He let out one chuckle.
The man stuck out his hand. "John Watson. Pleasure to meet you."
Sherlock gripped John's hand in a handshake but didn't state his name.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"
The laugh lines on John's face disappeared and he jerked his hand away from Sherlock's touch. "How did you guess that?"
"I don't guess. I deduced."
One of John's eyebrows shot up in a quizzical manner. "All right. How did you 'deduce' it?"
Sherlock choose to ignore the condescending tone in his question. "Your hair is short in a military style cut, although it has begun to grow out. Your posture is straighter than most people and the distance you kept between your legs shows a man who is used to standing 'at attention' and 'at ease'. Although, your left shoulder looks stiff, most likely tissue damage. How? Bullet. You're not a police officer, so war zone. Where have the British been fighting?" Sherlock looked as if he could continue but he stopped almost mid-thought.
Even though his previous sly remark had not gotten John angry, this was sure too. No one liked having their privacy invaded by a stranger. John's mouth was hanging open in a surprised silence.
Sherlock sighed internally. "Well?"
"That was brilliant."
The gears in Sherlock's head came to complete halt. "Excuse me?"
"Brilliant. Fantastic! Could you really get all that from the way I stand? Bloody hell!" John looked down at his body, as if he had a sign on him, with all his personal information written out.
Sherlock only turned a light shade of pink around his neck, which was, thankfully, hidden by his blue scarf. "That's not what most people say." And by most, he meant everyone.
"Well, what do 'most people' say?"
"Piss off." Sherlock gave the answer with a dead pan look that made John laugh all over again. It was slightly higher pitched and sounded almost like a giggle. Sherlock found that he liked it.
"You never did tell me your name."
"Mycroft Holmes." For some reason, he felt compelled to lie about who he truly was. He didn't want John to know that his girlfriend had stormed out because of him. A deep part in Sherlock's brain hoped she was now an ex-girlfriend.
"Wow! So you're the brother of the guy whose exhibition this is?"
Sherlock nodded his head in confirmation.
"I hope you don't mind me saying, but I heard he is a bit off his rocker." John said and licked his lips. Sherlock was only momentarily distracted by the action.
"I suppose. I really don't care what you say about him." Sherlock didn't feel too guilty, considering it was something his brother really would say.
"I mean, personally, I don't know anything about the bloke. I've just heard things. Like how he doesn't have any friends and he treats all his clients like they're little more than furniture. You know, only there to serve one purpose. A cold sort of guy."
"That's quite an opinion for a man you know nothing about." Sherlock tried to hid the frown that was creeping its way onto his lips. What did he care what this man said about him? He was famous! Desired by hundreds, if not thousands of people begging...no pleading to have his attention.
"Right, sorry. Just repeating the rumors I've heard-mostly tonight, really." John said.
His words stung more than they should. Sherlock knew none of the people in the exhibition hall really cared about him,but only about his gift and his ability to capture it on canvas. As long as they continued to throw money at me. Sherlock scoffed.
"Want to get back to the party? I could do with another drink." John passed a glance at his ruined glass all over the ground.
Although the party had been torture before, the thought of going back was almost unbearable now. "Tell you what, I'll go get us something harder than wine and we can just, I don't know, stay out here for a bit. It's too stifling inside for me." Sherlock was proud at the way he had made his voice falter, perfect pitch. John would have to comply.
Proving to be more of an enigma than he could have previously imagined, John looked at him with a weird look on his face. "What was that?"
"What was what?" Sherlock had the picture perfect look of innocence on his face.
"Don't do that. You're voice, changed." John's stuck his tongue out in disgust. "Just be yourself, mate. You looked like you were trying to deliver movie lines to me."
Sherlock could barely believe what he was hearing. It always worked. Well, he couldn't fool the real Mycroft, but everyone else, even people he had known for years, never saw through his 'I'm only pretending for your benefit' speeches and tones.
John walked a few paces back and plopped himself in the nearest chair. "I'll be here." He gave him a mock salute.
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
Sherlock darted his way through the hall with two glasses and a full bottle of whiskey. For some reason, Sherlock wanted to see how John acted while drunk. He was sure it would prove to be a very informative experiment.
Right as he was about to be out of danger's way, he heard his brother's voice calling for him. Mycroft's voice was stranded and had a hint of anger to it. Sherlock smirked and turned around to face his older brother.
"Mycroft."
The man sighed and drew his lips up in a tight line. "Sherlock, I have been looking for you for the last half an hour. You need to give your speech, remember?" Mycroft's voice dropped dangerously low at the ending.
"Please, You are much better equipped to give the speech in my steed." Sherlock turned as if to go and almost clashed into John.
"Mycroft, I was wondering what was taking you so long. Hope you don't mind."
"Pardon?" The real Mycroft questioned.
If he hadn't been holding three very breakable pieces of glass, Sherlock would have been tempted to face palm himself. It had all been going so nicely too...
"Who might you be?" John eyed Mycroft suspiciously.
"I'm Mycroft and who might you be?"
John head swiveled back and forth between the two brothers. "I've missed something, haven't I?"
Sherlock kept his lips sealed and waited for Mycroft to explain.
"If you meant to address the man between us, I do believe you should be calling him Sherlock Holmes. The man whose party this is. You are aware of that last bit, I hope." There was no need to try and look for the sarcasm in Mycroft's speech, it had practically dripped with it.
John's eyes narrowed. "Well, if this has been some sort of joke, it wasn't every funny."
John turned to leave and Sherlock realized how desperate he was to have the man stay. "Wait!" His voice rang out and caught the attention of the art critics in the viewing room.
"He's my new job."
"What?" Mycroft asked incredulously.
Sherlock squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. "I said, I am painting John Watson's portrait next."
Mycroft frowned. "You have already promised to paint Madam Baskerville next."
"She'll just have to wait."
Mummers began to erupt all around the room. Everyone had heard what the famous painter had said, and it was surely being plastered all over the social media sites before the conversation was even over. Mycroft looked scandalized.
"Wait just a minute. No one has even asked me if I want to have my bloody portrait done." John's voice was laced with anger and confusion.
"Believe me Mr. Watson, you would. Do you even realize how much the pieces in this exhibition retail for?" Mycroft sneered.
John gulped.
"No, he doesn't, but that's not the point. I'm painting him because I want to...free of charge." Sherlock waited for the storm that would erupt over his brother's features, he wasn't disappointed.
Mycroft practically sputtered out the word, "Free?!"
Mycroft brought his thumb and pointer finger up to his face and pinched the at the top of his nose. Sherlock smiled. It was worth it all just to see that smug look Mycroft alway wore wiped off of his face.
"There John, it has all been settled. Now, let's go have that drink."
John followed behind, too stunned to refuse.