The said advice in the summary basically is for het couples, copied from WikiHow's 'How To Seduce A Man'. While I'm not the expert and I really. . . well, let's just say they could be an awful turn-off if done wrong, and while the advice is for women. . . ah, dang it, just read it.
Yes, there's an ACD case fic but I didn't tag which one because it would be spoiler-y, so. . . .
Warning: Lots of old married bickering couple scenes and general "mis-duction" silliness ;)
And yeah, they're married. I love married Johnlock, they're just so cute and silly . . . .
Chapter One
"Oh God, what now?"
John sighed when Sherlock rolled over, and without any warning, started to put his pants back on. For the fifth time in eight days. John simply stared at him with disbelief. Had he known this, he'd rather have skipped with the foreplay.
"I—I just remembered," Sherlock seemed rather distracted, and not even half as horny as he had been a moment ago, "the cultures in the fridge need tending."
Again. Calm down, John told himself. It's Sherlock, this is going to happen. This was inevitable. It's okay.
No, it's not okay! his lizard brain screamed. And certainly not during sex.
John chuckled entirely without humour, "Sherlock, we were having sex!"
"About to," Sherlock zipped himself and gave him a droll look, "what else did you think we were doing?"
And with that, he rushed out of the room, leaving a naked and irritated John tangled in covers, determined to put an end to Sherlock's complacency.
"John!"
The tone was obvious. It was John's turn to examine the body. Lestrade gave him his blessing, as always, and he squatted down near the corpse, putting on his gloves.
The case, as Sherlock had ranked it, was barely six, but the three consecutive deaths had caused a huge pressure on Scotland Yard, and, by extension, on Lestrade, and hence on Sherlock. And that, combined with the lack of decent cases, had prompted Sherlock out to examine the last body they had found. The first three of them looked like straightforward murders, but since their visit to the fourth body, which was the previous one, Sherlock had begun to suspect something else.
And that suspicion proved legitimate when they discovered an inscription in blood near the body they were now examining.
Back off, Holmes
"Killer's trying to send a message?" John asked quietly, peering at the splotchy pink flesh of the old man.
"Trying without much success."
John bent down and examined the bullet wound.
"Shotgun wound. . . Wasn't he found with a pistol?"
"Yes. No shotgun in the house," Sherlock informed him, "However, the family is American."
"Huh."
"The killer was exceptionally stupid. Tried to make this look like a suicide."
John peered closely. There was. . .
"Gunpowder on his fingers, hand."
"Too much for a single shot."
"Someone deliberately put them there, to fake it."
"Exactly. And give me someone in history who was this short and committed suicide by blowing his own brains off with a shotgun. Idiot."
They broke into giggles, and then John restrained himself, "Shush! Crime scene."
"So you always say."
"Killer was his height, perhaps even taller," John exclaimed, "The bullet's path gives us that."
"Hmm."
"Rashes on hand, mouth, nose, scalp," John peered closely, covering his nose, "Never seen this kind, looks like. . ."
"Smallpox," Sherlock interjected, "But it's highly improbable. It's been completely eradicated, unless. . ."
"Someone's brewing cultures," John finished.
"The virus exists only in vaccines, in weakened form. In select labs, and I doubt there are any in England."
They both looked back towards the message in blood. John felt an irrational sense of foreboding. He glanced at Sherlock, who was deep in thought, but chose not to say anything. They were both used to death threats.
"Are you sure it's smallpox?" Sherlock's tone was suspicious, "Because even if it were, almost everyone in the Western world is immune to smallpox."
"Can't say," John rose, "Autopsy should tell us."
Sherlock rose too, and nodded, "I'll tell Molly what to look for. Lestrade!"
Lestrade promptly strode in.
"Identity?"
"Alejandro Sanchez, of the—"
"Sanchez crime family," Sherlock finished, "Miami, Florida. Now we're getting somewhere. Any relation with the last body we found?"
"We're still looking."
"Don't just look, find it!"
John frowned at Sherlock's knowledge, "Old friend of yours?"
"Somewhat. Mrs. Hudson's late husband used to work under them."
John looked back towards the message, "You don't suppose they're—?"
"No. I actually did them a favour by taking out Frank. He was taking away a big chunk of their income by blackmail. They even gave me a one-way ticket back to England."
"So why would they threaten you?"
Sherlock smirked, "Like I said, they are phenomenally stupid."
Next evening:
"Um. . . hello?"
The receptionist almost jumped in her chair as John approached her from behind. He caught one glance of the screen before she minimised it: How To Seduce A Man.
Yeah right, John thought, as if a website would tell 'em how.
"Yes, Dr. Watson?" she brushed her hair back, trying to not look flustered, "How can I help you?"
"I'm. . . uh," John glanced at the screen again, "done for the day. Has Dr. Wilkins arrived yet?"
"Yes, but he's, er, in a meeting. He'll be two hours, at the least."
"Oh well, could you tell him that, um, I. . . never mind. I think I'll talk to him in person."
The receptionist blinked, "Oh, okay. Good evening, Dr. Watson."
John smiled and turned to walk away before he realised what she said. He stopped and slowly turned to look at the woman who had never even smiled at him in the past, "Pardon?"
She grinned extra sweetly, with just a hint of helplessness in her eyes, "I said good evening, Dr. Watson."
John smirked, "Oh. Right."
A week later:
John snuck out of their bedroom towards the laptop. He had been thinking about it throughout that whole evening, throughout the half-dinner with Sherlock and the frustrated violin screeching thereafter.
After all these years of married life, he needed advice. Anonymous advice. Not from people he knew, of course not. It had not been easy, taking this step. It had taken him a week to swallow his pride and trust another's discretion. But he was tired. Tired without intimacy with Sherlock. Tired of initiating all the time and then being cast aside in favour of an experiment or an ill-timed suspect.
Sherlock had been his same self throughout, since the beginning of the days, but he had never ignored sex for an experiment. Therefore, it was only logical that John had to be the one making some mistake. After all, Sherlock was just reacting to what he was doing.
And John dreaded the fact that he wasn't able to keep Sherlock happy anymore.
So he stealthily went into the living room, knowing how light Sherlock's sleep was, and took a deep, deep breath before typing into Google:
how to seduce a man
Results: heterosexual
John tried one more time.
how to seduce a man gay
John scratched his head. It was all about picking guys up at bars. No relationship advice.
He tried one more time.
how to seduce husband gay
Even more unhelpful. All about what to do during sex, all about whatever John always did.
He went back to het results. After all, straight or otherwise, a man was a man, right? Even if that thought didn't ring right in John's head.
how to seduce a man
Full of relationship advice. Chock-a-block.
Lingerie, no-no. Sneak peek, did not work anymore. Messages in the shower, no such arrangement in the bathroom. I-Never games, bad memories. . .
And. . . there. There was the page John had been looking for. The one that receptionist had been checking out.
It did sound more mature than the Victoria's Secret stuff he had been looking at till now.
"Hypocrite."
John jumped in his chair, much like his receptionist had when he had caught her, "Pardon?"
"You always tell me to get my "beauty sleep", and there you are, sneaking around the place at night!" Sherlock exclaimed, irritated, "Now, if you're watching porn, could you please do it a little more quietly?"
"I'm not watching porn."
Sherlock let out a yawn, "Then make me some coffee too if you're not doing anything important. You've ruined my sleep."
"Help yourself!"
"I just got up. I'm still sleepy."
"You said you were awake because I had ruined your sleep."
"Yes, and that's why I'd better work."
John gave him a droll stare, "I'm not your housekeeper."
Sherlock looked at him, "Don't say that, John. You know those words are cursed."
John shut his laptop indignantly, fighting the impulse to give his extremely attractive and high maintenance husband a kiss as always, "Goodnight, Sherlock."
"Coffee?"
Another week later:
"Lestrade called. You weren't picking up."
"Hmm."
John looked at Sherlock's phone. It was alit, buzzing, and yet there was no response on Sherlock's part. John decided to simply break the news.
"I stopped by Bart's today. Met Molly."
"Huh."
"She said she couldn't identify the rashes, or the microbes causing it. That they're of an unknown genus."
That caused Sherlock to tense up. He blinked, and then looked away from the microscope, "That's funny. Neither have I."
"Those are in there?" John pointed at the microscope.
"Yep. I got them from the kitchens of their houses."
"Those. . . germs, they're now in. . . our house?"
"Yes."
He pursed his lips, and looked down, waiting for Sherlock to tell him more, but Sherlock did no such thing.
"Okay, so what are you going to do about the case if this turns out positive?"
"I've written up the details for you on the wall. Go check it out."
The wall over the sofa was almost always filled with post-its and photos and conclusions during cases that were puzzling to Sherlock. John peered closely. Age had rendered his eyesight too unreliable.
Victim #1: Sofia Cortes: Alejandro's illegitimate daughter followed by age, pictures of the crime scene, last seen and friends.
Victim #2: Mercedes Sanchez: heiress to Forelli family estate followed by age, pictures of the crime scene, last seen and friends.
Victim #3: Anna Gordon: drug lord, busted drug deal b/w Forelli's & the Sanchez's followed by age, pictures of the crime scene, last seen and friends.
Victim #4: Jane Doe Elena Smith: role unknown, followed by age, pictures of the crime scene and friends
Victim #5: Alejandro Sanchez: brother to Tito Sanchez, the head of Sanchez crime family, half-brother to Mercedes followed by age, pictures of the crime scene, last seen and friends
"You said," John began, "that they were American citizens."
Sherlock smirked, "And origin. Anna and Elena, on the other hand, are both English. Anna's citizenship, however, is debatable."
"Huh," John exclaimed, "Strange that Sofia, Mercedes, Alejandro and Tito, they all had to change continents only for most of them to get killed at the end."
The smirk grew, and John knew he was getting somewhere. Sherlock always had this smile when John would be beginning to catch up with his reasoning, "Yes."
John looked back at Sherlock's notes of the case. Sherlock never really needed notes; but as of late, they were usually for John to follow through and, as Sherlock politely put it, 'for John to offer insight'. John tried to offer some, as he was trying now, but most of his own observations did never contribute much to Sherlock's conclusions. Were all these people on a run? But they were killed by people close to them.
John gave up.
"So, no longer a six, is it?"
Sherlock deflated, "At least an eight. What do you see common in the photos?"
It dawned on John, "They have those rashes. All of them. In almost the same places. Hands and mouth."
"Exactly," Sherlock rose from his seat and went and stood next to John, "All of them, every single have the most concentration of rashes on the hands, near the fingers that is, and in their mouths. There were a few on other parts of their body, but hands and mouth were most infected. Why? Obviously, one eats with their hands, and the food goes into the mouth. Other parts of the bodies were probably infected by scratching, etc. So I took food samples from all their kitchens. That's what's in here," he pointed towards the microscope.
"Hence the food could be source of infection, and the hands must have propagated the microbes," John nodded, "Fits well enough, but. . ."
"But their murders were done in different ways," Sherlock completed, "Anna was killed by a blow to her head, Mercedes was shot in the head, Sofia was drowned, and then all their faces were disfigured. Elena was stabbed in the lung. Alejandro was killed using a shotgun. With the first four victims as women, I thought it was the work of a serial killer who did not mind getting creative. But the odd thing is, each body has a different killer. There appears to be no single serial killer."
"Lestrade said that the killers had all confessed."
"Yes."
"Then the case is closed."
"Hardly. Alejandro was killed by his own mother. Sofia and Anna were both killed by their boyfriends. Mercedes was killed by her uncle, which is strange because she was the only heiress of the Forelli family. Everyone was killed by someone they lived with, someone they were close to, even if they had big shot enemies. All of them, except for Elena."
"Okay. Who killed Elena?"
Sherlock's upper lip twitched, as if the question was causing him huge discomfort, "I don't know. But one thing is clear. All of them are somehow related to the Sanchez family."
"So someone's basically hunting the Sanchez family down. That means," John looked back to the post-it near Alejandro's photo, "this guy, Tito, he's in danger."
"He is."
"But you just said that. . ."
"Alejandro's mother killed her own son. Yes, I did," Sherlock exhaled heavily and sat down on the table, "that complicates matters. That means Tito must be safe. Since there's nobody else he's close to."
He showed John his phone, "Just because I haven't been responding to Lestrade's texts doesn't mean that I haven't been reading them."
John folded his arms, "Oh, of course, what else could it possibly mean!"
Sherlock ignored the sarcasm, "They found the shotgun, confirmed ballistics, the mother's fingerprints. But there's something I can't figure out. What is it? WHAT IS IT?!"
John was, by now, used to his husband's sudden outbursts over the years, "So, what are you going to do?"
Sherlock shook his head, "Elena is my only hope."
"You know nothing about her."
"Precisely. At least I can hope that she'll tell me something that I don't already know. I've got my people out. Until then, I can do nothing."
"So. . . you'll just stay up all night. Or are you in the mood for something else?" John asked suggestively.
"I'll eat."
John was taken aback. That was the last thing he had expected to hear. Sherlock was always so overly understanding when it came to sexual innuendos. And besides, it had been twenty five days since they last had sex. That in itself was a record.
"You've been eating. You've got. . . caramel in your teeth."
"I'm hungry."
"You had lunch. And biscuits while tea."
"And I'm still hungry. Strange, isn't it?"
"You're just getting old."
"I wouldn't say that."
John chuckled, and gave Sherlock a peck on his cheek, "Dinner?"
"Starving."
The next night:
"It's very weird."
Sherlock, reading beside him in the bed, did not respond.
"Do you know how long it has been since we last had sex?"
"Remind me."
John felt stupid for being the only one to take this seriously, "Twenty six days today."
Sherlock seemed interested, even a bit shocked, "That long?"
"Yup."
"Huh. We'll do it one of these days again."
John looked at him disbelievingly, "One of these days? You used to want to fuck before 'sex' was even out of my mouth!"
"I'm not the sex maniac you portray me to be."
"Yes you are."
Sherlock put down his book and smiled at John. And then leaned in and gave him a long, deep kiss, "I still love you, sex or not."
John kissed him back, "And I love you, old or not."
"Don't you call me old, John Watson!"
John laughed and kissed him on the forehead, "Goodnight, Sherlock."
Time to use the advice, then.
Oh yeah... The "silly mis-duction" is next chapter onwards...
Managed to guess which ACD story this could be? (Hint: it's in the names)