Hi ho, it's been a while. So I was sifting through the (giant pile of) unfinished fics on my PC and decided to finish off (hurr, finish off) a couple. Here's one of them.
Written originally as a gift for TSylvestris as she really liked the tailor from Five Times. I mean REALLY really. I've re-written and tweaked it a little (as in I've fixed most of the howlingly terrible mistakes but do feel free to point out if any have been missed). Thanks to Lyrium Flower for tearing herself away from her French elf long enough to beta this and to New_Boy for playing cheerleader.
The tailor, as before, looks more than a little bit like Tom Hardy. Thanks for your patience.
The Cut Of His Gib
"Where are we going again?"
"I haven't told you our destination so the use of the word 'again' is completely redundant."
"You're a twat. Where are we going?"
In the reflection from the taxi window John could see Sherlock rolling his eyes, his mop of dark hair stippled by the fairy lights of passing windows.
"Savile Row."
"Nice. This for a case?"
Sherlock's profile half turned towards him consideringly, the glitter of his gaze hidden in the dance of the water along the Thames.
"For a suit."
"So," John started, voice carefully even, "when I told Zoe I was postponing our date...again...because of an 'important meeting' I was, in fact, talking utter bollocks."
"You frequently do," said Sherlock dismissively. "Anyway, you never have important meetings, just important places to be."
"Debatable."
"Besides," continued Sherlock, ignoring him, "I need my blogger's opinion on the cut."
"You continue to be a twat, Sherlock," John told his reflection, "and you're gleefully stomping on what remains of my sex life."
John watched his flatmate smile and flip up his collar in satisfaction before he turned his attention back to the opposite window, entirely unable to stop a small grin of his own forming in response. A few months ago that particular comment might have earned him an acid remark about the quality of his recent female acquaintances over the relative merits of his left hand but his odd co-habitor had, if not precisely mellowed, then certainly made efforts towards accommodating John's expectations, some of which included basic social niceties.
I suppose saving his life then getting kidnapped and threatened with death by IED will do that to a relationship, thought John wryly.
Sherlock also appeared to be in a very good mood this evening, surprisingly so given the lack of case.
"Savile Row it is, then," he muttered, shaking his head.
It had begun to snow in earnest as the taxi pulled up outside the small, brightly lit shop. The establishments to either side were shuttered, windows draped in heavy cloth, and John briefly wondered if this particular tailor had stayed open especially for Sherlock. The amount of shirts he got through, not to mention the type of suits he preferred, placed him squarely in the 'valued customer' bracket. Thinking about it Sherlock, would have (and probably had) seen fit to demand his own opening times.
He followed him through the small door, pleased with himself for flinching only slightly at the discordant jangle of the bell, an escaping warm rush of air proving a stark contrast to the bitterness of the October night. Sherlock strode in, removing his gloves and glancing around, eyes alight with expectation. John chuckled to himself at the unexpected display of excitement. Perhaps a spot of retail therapy would save them both from Sherlock's terminal boredom until another interesting case presented itself.
"Why, Mr. Holmes," drawled a voice, rough and syrupy with amusement. "A pleasure to see you again so soon. You look well."
A striking looking man appeared from the back of the shop, clad in a beautifully cut waistcoat and suit trousers, the sleeves of his crisp grey shirt rolled up and a tape measure bouncing jauntily around his open collar. He smiled at Sherlock and held out a hand which Sherlock clasped briefly with an answering quirk of his lips. They held the other's gaze for a few moments, the silence causing John, who had been looking around with interest, to clear his throat and step forward.
"John Watson," he said, extending his own hand. The tailor blinked and then turned to shake it, nodding at him in acknowledgement.
"Vic," he offered with another warm smile, and John noted distantly that his eyes were a deep, honest azure. "Sorry about that, Mr Holmes and I are..." he paused, pursing his lips.
"Old friends," finished Sherlock, straightening his cuffs.
"You flatter me, Mr Holmes. May I take your scarf?"
"I think I'll leave it on."
"It is rather nippy tonight. So. Are we trying something new, Sir?" Vic continued, politely dipping a smile in John's direction. "Perhaps a more modern cut?"
"The situation might call for it, yes. Although I do prefer the classics, as you know."
"I believe there's room for both, Sir, in this day and age."
"Um," said John, trying to disregard the sneaking sensation that he was missing out on some incredibly vital subtext, "do you really need me for this?"
"Of course," replied Sherlock briskly. "You're indispensable to the whole operation."
"Do take a seat, Dr Watson," said Vic, gesturing to a nearby chair. "I'll need to measure you again, Mr Holmes, the new cuts can be a little unforgiving if we don't get things quite right. Coat off, up on the step, please."
John settled himself into the chair, watching as Sherlock, suspiciously docile, slipped what he privately thought of as his Hero Coat off and tossed it in John's general direction like a belligerent stripper.
"Was that supposed to turn me on?" he asked drily, draping it over the armrest and watching Vic swallow a grin as he drew the tape measure from around his neck with an efficient sounding whisk.
"Let's get started." Vic paused suddenly, peering up at Sherlock who cast a glance at John sat opposite, a slight flush on his cheeks. "I think I will need that scarf off after all, Sir," he said quietly, and reached up. Halfway there he winced.
"Problem?"
"Minor shoulder injury, Sir. Stupid, really, I keep forgetting."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed fractionally and John found himself leaning forward in happy anticipation.
"Right shoulder - the other is uninjured, you shook John's hand with your left earlier - painful flexion and abduction. You're clean shaven so there's no restriction of neck movement, no whiplash injury. You're wearing a looser cut shirt than normal and there's a graze on your forearm, hmm, likely a worse one on your upper arm which you'd prefer the material didn't touch, am I right? Careless." Sherlock tutted, one eyebrow raised. "You fell off your motorbike."
John glanced at Vic who gave him a wry smile in return, looking completely unsurprised by the torrent of observation. "Indeed, Sir. Spot of black ice caught me unawares." He unlooped the soft material of the scarf with his left hand and dragged it from around Sherlock's neck slowly, letting the end trail over the long, exposed throat. "Well done, Sir."
The splash of colour along Sherlock's cheekbones deepened, much to John's surprise, although he wasn't sure whether it was with pleasure or embarrassment or…
Vic was standing very close to the other man who, after a pause, reached out and swept an assessing hand along the broad shoulders in turn, the slim fingers eventually coming to rest in the curve of Vic's neck, over a pulse point. The tailor turned his head fractionally as if relaxing into the touch and John found himself wondering if Sherlock's hands were as shockingly warm as they had been that night in front of the graffitied wall before he caught himself and shoved the errant thought onto the naughty step for a time out. It was now extremely stuffy in the shop and John tugged his own coat off, aware that both men were now watching him.
"Er, want me to take a look at it?" he offered weakly.
"No need, but I'm afraid I'm at a bit of a disadvantage, Sir," continued Vic. "Perhaps another evening? Measuring may prove a little difficult with this shoulder, unless..." he directed a questioning glance at John. "You wouldn't mind lending me a hand?"
"Me?"
"If you help me with the tape, between us we could get him sorted."
"But-"
"Oh hurry up, John," called Sherlock impatiently. "We'll have to come back otherwise. Besides, we haven't got anything else on this evening."
I did thought John wistfullly, even as he found himself approaching the two men. I was hoping to have sex with my new girlfriend and, just once, come home afterwards to a non destroyed flat. Vic smiled at him easily and moved him round to stand behind Sherlock.
"Thank you, Sir, much appreciated." He lifted the end of the tape with his good arm, brushing dark curls aside with his fingers and pressed it gently against the nape of Sherlock's neck. "Unusually long neck for a man, don't you think?" he said conversationally. "Now, I need you to run your thumb along Mr Holmes' spine. Make sure you feel each vertebra for an accurate measurement. All the way down to the small of the back, if you would."
"Um. Right." John stared at his own fingers on the tape, stubby-looking next to Vic's elegantly tapered ones and willed them to move. Ridiculous, really. He'd spent years with his hands on the bodies of lovers and strangers alike but this was different. Didn't fit into any context, not professional, not sexual and the man whose back he was about to stroke - uh, no, try delineate. Yes, delineate. Much better. Okay. Context, that was all he needed. This was simply about measurement after all. "Right." He began to slide his fingers down the tape, knuckling gently against Sherlock's spine.
"No, I'm afraid this won't do," A soft rasp of a voice broke through his reverie and he felt Sherlock jump slightly under his hand.
"Problem?" There was a shift of muscle as Sherlock twisted to glance at Vic.
"Without making assumptions, Mr Holmes, I suspect Dr Watson here is not as familiar with your landmarks as I am."
"Hang on, what's that supposed-?"
"I need the measurements to be as accurate as possible," Vic said firmly, turning to fix his eyes on John who found himself faltering into silence at the sheer weight of the clear blue gaze. "Our Mr Holmes has such exacting requirements any mistakes could prove extremely disabling."
"Bit dramatic, but whatever," John sighed, stepping back and gesturing vaguely at the pair of them. "It's just a bloody suit," he muttered rebelliously.
"Jacket off, if you would, Sir," murmured Vic, fingers stroking his mouth thoughtfully as Sherlock shouldered himself out of tailored cotton and resumed his previous position. Savile Row's Next Top Model, thought John, allowing himself a small smirk at the image of Sherlock strutting down a catwalk.
"Are you wearing anything underneath that shirt?" asked Vic.
"No. Do you need it off as well?"
John's smirk vanished. Taking measurements aside, seeing his flatmate topless in the company of another man would just be...weird. Not that he hadn't seen men topless before. Or bottomless, come to think of it, but...this was Sherlock. He was pretty sure Sherlock had been born wearing a suit and he'd never seen him stalk round the flat in anything less than four items of clothing. Yes, yes, underneath his clothes he was most certainly naked but he didn't need to see any of said nakedness. It would just make things a bit-
He started slightly on meeting the tailor's polite but definitely amused gaze.
"We'll see how we go, I think," replied Vic, running a finger down Sherlock's back to an answering roll of his shoulders. John looked away quickly, uncomfortable for no reason he could put his finger on immediately. "Shirt is pretty thin. Dr Watson should be able to feel everything he needs to through it. Are you ready?"
"Er, yes. Yeah, go on then," said John, giving himself a mental shake.
Vic pulled at the collar, exposing the base of Sherlock's neck, fingers drifting briefly along the fine muscles of his shoulders before pressing the tape against the protruding C7.
"Cold," Sherlock complained.
"Oh, it'll warm up," drawled Vic, all soft honey and amusement. John swallowed, squared his shoulders and took hold of the tape just below the other man's hand. His fingers caught in the collar.
"Perhaps we should have this off, after all-" started Vic.
"No, no," said John hurriedly. "No, sorry. I can work around it." He began to smooth the tape down the long slope of Sherlock's back, thumb gently undulating over the vertebra, the warmth underneath radiating heat into his cheeks.
"Little slower if you would, Dr Watson."
"What?"
"A little slower," repeated Vic patiently. "The tape needs to rest easily over the landmarks, it's being pulled a bit too tight at the moment."
"Sorry. Not done this before."
"Of course you haven't. That's better," added Vic. "Nice and smooth, just like that."
He must sell a lot of suits thought John hazily. Even the strongest constitution couldn't fail to be mesmerised by the low, purring rasp of a voice. Almost on a par with Sherlock's liquid rumble. He blinked in surprise, hand stilling.
"Something the matter?"
John peered up from the uncomfortable half crouch he suddenly found himself in to meet Sherlock's glacier stare. "No, I, er," he flailed briefly, thumb stalled at L3. "Where do I go from here?"
"You're almost there," offered Vic, looking down at him. The combination of the two made John feel as if he was under twin spotlights. "Just down to the tailbone and we're finished. Mr Holmes can hold the tape himself afterwards. The suit trousers will be to his usual preference so we don't have to re-do any of those measurements.
Thank God thought John even as his mouth was forming around a dismayed "you want me to feel his coccyx?"
"No, Sir," Vic grinned at him, eyes bright.
John relaxed and smiled in return, letting out a small huff of relieved laughter. "Oh. Good."
"Just his tailbone will do."
Sherlock chuckled quietly above him as John stuttered out a jumble of confused consonants, ears flaming bright red, before he scowled at the both of them. Vic was biting his lips in an effort not to laugh out loud whilst Sherlock, bloody Sherlock, had no such compunction.
"You're not funny," he muttered finally, drawing his thumb with slightly more force than necessary over the bump of the coccyx, feeling Sherlock flinch a little. "There, done." He raised the tape into Vic's eyeline, daring him to smile but the other man was abruptly all professionalism and nodded in thanks, jotting down the numbers on a small notepad.
"Thank you, Dr Watson."
"Really, John, you have no sense of humour," remarked Sherlock airily, adjusting his cuffs.
"Sod off." snapped John, and then frowned at the tailor, busy directing Sherlock on how to measure his own chest, struck by a sudden thought. "Wait. How did you know I was a Doctor? I never said."
Vic shrugged easily. "Mr Holmes must have mentioned it. Now," he turned to Sherlock. "I have some of your preferred shirts in new colours if you'd like to follow me to the changing room, Sir. Some of them would particularly suit you, I think."
"Splendid. Don't go anywhere, John, I haven't any money for a taxi."
The two men disappeared behind a heavy velour curtain leaving John to slump irritably into a nearby chair.
"I'll just wait here then, shall I?"
They'd been gone for ages. John shifted in his seat. This was worse than shopping with a girlfriend. At least then there were other women he could browse idly to pass the time. He shifted again, trying to peer past the curtain. There was a tiny sliver of space, if just leaned forwards a bit...
Being caught spying on your flatmate mid-state of undress, previous gropings of spines notwithstanding, could be awkward. He crossed his legs and sat back, fingers drumming impatiently on the armrests. There was a small creak from inside the changing room but aside from that the shop was deathly quiet.
I'm pretty sure that's not a soundproof curtain.
Another creak.
Curiosity overriding caution, John got to his feet as soundlessly as he could manage.
Could have got himself into trouble he told himself firmly. Wouldn't be the first time.
Creeping forward he reached out and gently twitched the curtain aside, taking care to stay behind it as much as possible. The changing room itself was dimly lit, low light from a sconce and a single ornate lamp casting the corners into shadow and for a moment John thought the entwined figures inside were simply his brain readjusting. He squinted, moved the curtain a little more and then froze, his mouth dropping open in shock.
They stood in front of a large floor to ceiling mirror, surrounded by an explosion of coloured cotton. Sherlock was pressed close to the other man's chest, head thrown back against his shoulder, eyes closed and mouth slack as Vic murmured low, unintelligible words into his ear. His flatmate was clad in a deep red shirt, unbuttoned, revealing a stripe of pale skin. His gaze travelling curiously over the smooth chest, John felt himself heat when he realised that Vic's left hand had disappeared underneath one half, arm tight around his torso whilst the other...the other hand was rubbing slowly over one trousered hip.
John hesitated, torn between backing away slowly or clearing his throat meaningfully but his decision was completely stymied when Sherlock let out a soft moan. John's eyes flew down to Vic's visible hand which danced briefly up a flank before circling closer to Sherlock's groin, the tight trousers doing absolutely nothing to hide his arousal. John heaved a steadying breath in and willed his feet backwards but found himself unable to tear himself away from the reflected tableaux.
They look like something from a painting he thought irrationally. Otherworldly and- he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror, lips parted, expression rapt and frowned at himself. A smothered gasp from Sherlock drew his focus back to the two men and his heart dropped into his stomach when he realised that Vic was looking straight at him. He said nothing though, shook his head slightly as John's mouth dropped open to explain, deny, or stutter some sort of an excuse. Vic simply winked, a slow, lazy closure of one bright eye, and smiled, before turning his head to nose at the soft skin behind Sherlock's ear.
John dropped the curtain and took a step back, heart thundering in his chest.
Well, that was unexpected he thought, examining his reaction, pleased to find it free of anything approaching shame or judgement. In fact if he was honest, it'd been edging perilously close to appreciation. Each to his own, I suppose.
He looked around the shop for a few moments, hands patting absently at his coat pockets before he came to a decision, forcing the image of the two men into the area of his memory titled 'for perusal later, possibly never'. There were explosions in there too, blood and dust and the laugh of a madman.
Possibly never, then.
Sherlock was re-fastening the buttons on his shirt when the bell on the shop door jangled. He paused for a moment, meeting Vic's eyes in the mirror. Vic smiled, ruffling dark curls affectionately before ducking around the curtain. He returned a few moments later.
"Well, he left you money for a taxi. It was either for that or for the show we gave him."
Sherlock pursed his lips and said nothing, tucking his shirt tails back into his trousers. Warm hands descended on his upper arms and turned him gently.
"If it helps," said Vic softly, "he didn't seem disinterested, he stood there watching for a little while. He wasn't disgusted either, if that's what was worrying you. He looked surprised. And a bit confused." He combed back a tumble of hair with his fingers, watching the pale face go from wintry to thoughtful.
"I suppose that's something," Sherlock said finally. "I appreciate your help."
"Always a pleasure, Mr Holmes," returned the tailor, making a show of dusting off Sherlock's shirt. "Goodness me, my shoulder seems to be a lot better all of a sudden," he added mischievously, beaming at the small smile which appeared on Sherlock's face.
"Thank you, Vic."
"Welcome. He seems like a nice chap."
"A good cut for me, do you think?"
"Only time will tell. Now would you like your purchases wrapped, Sir? Very good. Anything exciting planned?"
"Few loose ends to tie up. Sending John out to investigate some rambler found dead in the middle of nowhere, sounds terribly dull."
"Do be careful, Sir."
"Of course."
With a nod of farewell, Sherlock exited the shop, heels rapping smartly on the pavement outside as he turned up the darkened street. Vic watched him until he was out of sight and then smiled to himself, shaking his head.
"He'll come round if he has any sense," he murmured to the shop at large, "and if he doesn't, he's an idiot."
Locking the front door, with a sigh and a last glance at the falling snow, he disappeared back into the depths of the shop to tidy up.