The Nature of the Game, a sherlock holmes fanfic

Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.

Notes: This is my help_haiti fic for jaydblu, who won me in the auction and requested Sherlock Holmes fic. I feel I should let you all know that I started two different fics before this one, and those were a lot more PWP. I stalled out about 200 words into each. XD Apparently, this fandom wants me to write plot of some sort. Go figure.

Giant hugs and thanks to caramelsilver for being the speediest awesome beta in the world, and for cutting my monster sentences down in size. :D It seems I still think I'm in the three-sentence-ficathon, where every sentence is about five smaller ones joined together by semicolons. :D

Title roughly paraphrased from The Rolling Stones' "Sympathy for the Devil".

"Pardon me. Oh, I'm so clumsy," Inspector Lestrade heard as he felt something bump into him from the side. He looked down to see a small old woman, crouched down on the ground and gathering her spilled parcels. Ever courteous, Lestrade bent down to help her with her items, saying, "No harm done, madam."

When he set the last box in her arms, the old woman straightened up from the ground and smiled at him kindly. Her skin was weathered with age and her hair a fly-away gray, but Lestrade noticed that her eyes were sharp and piercing, darting left to right and taking in his appearance.

"Excuse my nosiness, sir, but you are Inspector Lestrade, aren't you?" she asked excitedly, blinking up at him. "The one who's set to capture that villain Sherlock Holmes?"

Lestrade couldn't help puffing up a little bit. Holmes was the nemesis of his career, no doubt the one that would make his life worthwhile once caught, but so few people seemed to appreciate the sheer amount of work the police had put into following his whereabouts. When Holmes's exploits were shouted in the newspapers, the general public seemed more inclined to sympathize with that blasted slippery criminal and his ingenious plots, than the efforts of the police.

"Indeed, madam. But when we do capture him it will be due to the joint efforts of all Scotland Yard," he said officiously, and the woman nodded obligingly.

"Of course, Inspector, of course," she said. "My grandsons, a pair of rascals, but good boys underneath, they think it's all great fun and that that Sherlock Holmes is some sort of a hero. They said to me just the other day, the police will never be able to stop him from stealing the Countess's diamond jewelry, not if he's set his eye on them." She tutted to herself disapprovingly, and Lestrade's lips tightened in displeasure. "But I told them, I did, I said now boys, don't you disparage our fine police force like that, do you understand me? I have full faith in their capabilities, and I know they will make sure that criminal is brought to justice."

She smiled up at him benignly, and paused, cheeks flushing a little as she whispered conspiratorially, "Curiosity has always been my greatest fault, Inspector. I do so badly want to know where you have the Countess's jewels hidden, but I won't ask you that for fear you'd think me a suspicious character." She laughed gaily, and Lestrade smiled.

"Curiosity is no terrible thing, madam," he said generously. "You may rest assured that the jewels are safe, in any case." The back of his hand brushed lightly against his coat pocket, and he smiled to himself again. Holmes had made it no secret that he wanted those jewels, and Lestrade would pay a great sum to see the confounded look upon his face when he searched the Countess's safe to find them missing. Indeed, he wouldn't find them anywhere at all, no matter where he looked; the only place Lestrade knew was safe from Holmes's reach was his own person, in the depths of his tightly buttoned pocket. Holmes wouldn't get past him. The only thing Holmes would find would be four policemen waiting for him at the Countess's palatial home, and Holmes would lead them straight to his right-hand man, Watson, as well.

Holmes had made a fool out of Scotland Yard for too long indeed, and Lestrade intended to cut his career short this time.

"Well, I won't keep you any longer, Inspector," the old woman said, hugging her parcels closer and laying a hand on his arm. "I know you have much more important things to get to. I just wanted to let you know that I truly appreciate the fine job you and the rest of Scotland Yard are doing. You are a true inspiration, Inspector." With that and a smile, she left, back hunched slightly, struggling against the wind. Lestrade watched her go, warmed by her kind words. It was the older generation that genuinely recognized the many merits of the police force. Children nowadays had a fascination with the criminal class and romanticized them to a degree that Lestrade, for one, found indicative of a general moral decline in society.

Yes, there went a true specimen of morality, someone who knew the worth of justice and those who upheld it in this world.

Lestrade turned away and continued on his way to the police station. Absently, he patted his pocket from the outside.

His coat flattened under his fingers, and his heart dropped like a stone.

-O-

Watson busied himself with his revolver, checking it meticulously to ensure it was in good condition, and when he heard the door open, he said without looking up, "Well, then, did he talk?"

Holmes strode into the room, closing the door forcefully behind him and throwing his empty parcels somewhere to his left. He tore the hat off his head and ripped off his false moustache, dropping it on the bed with the remnants of his old woman disguise. His mouth was twisted in disgust.

"Watson, if that man is the entirety of what Scotland Yard has to offer, if he is supposed to be my greatest adversary, I give up. I give it all up," he said, scowling fiercely, and threw himself into the chair next to Watson, crossing his long legs at the ankles.

"Do you, then?" Watson asked mildly. "Very well. I'm sure the police all across the world will be delighted to hear it. You can turn your nefarious powers to the right side of the law, and I can spend my time patching up people who aren't you."

"Facetiousness ill-becomes you, Watson," Holmes said acerbically, and shuffled around the papers on the table, retrieving his pipe from beneath the newspaper. Watson sighed heavily.

"I just arranged those, Holmes," he said without much ire, too used to Holmes's ways, and continued, "I suppose I needn't even ask if you have them?"

Holmes reached into his pocket wordlessly, and when he laid the earrings gently on the table, Watson lifted his eyebrows, impressed despite himself. They sparkled, catching the light in a way that unmistakably showed their worth.

That wasn't why Holmes had gone after them, of course. He could have his pick of jewels, far more exotic in nature; they had enough wealth from their joint exploits that they only stole the truly spectacular. No, this was meant to be exciting. A challenge.

"So you announce to the country that you intend to steal the Countess's jewels, you watch them run around in a frenzy, and then?" Watson said, trailing off, and Holmes huffed.

"He had them in his pocket," he said disgustedly, "I had them out of there in a moment's time." Watson bit his lip to hide his smile, and considered whether or not he should inform Holmes of his current resemblance to a pouting child.

"Well, in his defense, I don't expect anyone else could have relieved him of his burden without him noticing," Watson said, and watched with amusement as Holmes's scowl deepened. Watson got to his feet, slipped the jewels in his pocket, and clapped his hand onto Holmes's shoulder. "Cheer up, old boy," he said bracingly. "I'll take care of removing these to a safer place, you get us set to leave tonight before Scotland Yard comes knocking down doors. There are always more things to steal, and I don't think you'll ever lack for a challenge. Maybe next time, instead of antagonizing Inspector Lestrade, we can attempt to steal the Crown Jewels."

Slowly, Holmes's dour look lightened, and a smile tugged at his lips. "Attempt?" he asked, drawing the word out and lifting his eyebrows.

Watson smirked. "I misspoke," he said. "My mistake."

"My dear Watson," Holmes said, voice fond and warm, "whatever would I do without you?"

Watson shrugged his jacket on, and said over his shoulder, "You would be a far sadder man, Holmes, with no one there to find a way to…raise your spirits."

That surprised a short laugh out of Holmes, and Watson hid his own smile.

"Hurry back," Holmes said from behind him, eyes fixed on Watson (always, when they were together his eyes always were; Watson had the distinction of being the one person in the world who could capture the entirety of Sherlock Holmes's attention and he would not give that up for anything).

Watson leaned down to kiss him, barely a brush of their mouths, tongue flickering out briefly to catch against Holmes's upper lip in a shock of instant heat that spiraled down his spine. Holmes's eyes were dark when Watson pulled back, and neither of them said a word as Watson left.

They didn't need words. They never really did. Watson would be back the moment he was free, because the one lesson time had managed to thoroughly teach him was that his place was with Holmes.

Always.

-O-

Watson let himself back in carefully, turning around to latch the door, and felt Holmes's presence behind him before he even saw him.

Holmes leaned in and murmured against the back of his neck, "I believe you said something about raising my spirits?" Watson smiled, unseen, and twisted around to capture Holmes's mouth in a hard kiss, teeth nipping his lower lip sharply. Holmes's hands, those clever hands, so quick to divest Watson of his clothing (and his walls, too; Watson had no defenses against Holmes's piercing gaze, those eyes that knew him more thoroughly than anyone else had before), scratched lightly against his skin, leaving fire in their wake.

"Don't have much time," Watson mumbled against Holmes's mouth, "we must leave here soon."

"We have just enough time," Holmes countered, leading Watson forcefully toward the bed, now clear of all the papers that had previously been spread over it. "You forget the incompetence of our police force, my dear Watson. By the time they trace us to these rooms, it will be tomorrow, and we will be long gone."

Watson ceased to argue, partly due to the convincing nature of Holmes's line of reasoning, partly due to the way in which Holmes raked his teeth down the curve of Watson's neck, eminently distracting.

Watson's leg still twinged time and again from his old injury, which meant he couldn't go down upon his knees with haste anymore. His hands were still deft, though, still capable, and Holmes gasped into his ear in a highly gratifying manner when Watson wrapped a hand around his length and stroked him to completion. It did not take much as the two of them were still quivering with the excitable energy of a theft. Watson was finished just as quickly when Holmes pushed him upon the bed and proved that, skillful as his talent for misdirection and obfuscation was, he could put his mouth to an even better use that required no words at all.

Afterward, Holmes stood and reached for his pipe, and then his clothes, moving with the languid grace of the truly well-satisfied. Watson watched him for a moment, that long, lean form so dear to him, and finally sat up to dress himself as well.

When every last button was in place, Watson looked around the nearly empty room, all their things gathered in the corner, and said, gesturing toward the door, "Shall we?"

Holmes looked at him for a moment, then smiled. "Always," he said, then hurriedly threw on his coat and moved toward the door, before Watson could do the unthinkable and accuse him of sentimentality.

Holmes left and Watson followed; others might not have guessed it, but it was not that way all the time. Sherlock Holmes the criminal mastermind and his close associate John Watson—on the surface that was all they appeared to be. But then, no one else knew that Holmes had a tendency to become so focused upon his task at hand that sleep and even food came second, and it took Watson's careful prodding to keep him in good health. No one else knew that Watson's sense of humor was sly and incisive, and that more than half of the epithets denigrating Scotland Yard that were attributed to Holmes came from Watson's lips first. No one else knew that between themselves, there was no mastermind and associate, but rather two partners who trusted each other above all else.

Anyone who ever met them could see that their paths were linked together by fate's hand, perhaps for the rest of their lives.

-O-

Watson settled into his seat in the train, fingers curling at his side in an attempt to resist scratching at his false beard. Casually, he looked up the aisle to where Holmes sat, three rows ahead of him, and drew his eyes away with difficulty. Even red-haired, even with his false nose attached, Holmes was Holmes; Watson could find him in the midst of a riot no matter what face he wore. Some things never changed, and one of those was the piercing look in Holmes's eyes. No one would notice it but Watson, but then, no one would ever know Holmes as well as Watson did.

The man sitting in front of Watson coughed and shuffled his newspaper on his lap, and Watson read the headline for the sixth time: HOLMES AND WATSON FULFILL PROMISE, MAKE AWAY WITH COUNTESS'S JEWELS.

He smiled to himself, and turned his gaze out the window.

Holmes and Watson. Inseparable.

Forever.