4:25A.M
TXT MESSAGE FROM: BLOCKED NUMBER
SUBJECT: DO YOU LIKE GAMES?
I have planted a small, untraceable bomb on one of your staff members. If I am not adequately entertained by noon, the bomb will go off and rid the world of yet another idiot. Do NOT attempt to contact the police or Doctor John Watson. Any movement that indicates that you have decided to take this course of action will result in mass destruction of Anderson
The game is afoot.
Inspector Lestrade was not one to openly groan in frustration or feel terror at some silly text message, but after the first year with Sherlock Holmes, anything hinting that the brilliant arse of a man was plotting something made a chill of horror ripple up his spine. And this had the be the work of Sherlock. no one else would be stupid to contact him this early in the morning saying things about putting bombs on idiots or contacting John Watson…
If it had been anyone else, Lestrade wouldn't have bothered getting out of bed, but dealing with Sherlock had to be done by someone, and since no one else was willing to save the world from his childish boredom, he'd have to do it.
Slowly, he peeled himself away from the warm confines of his bed and began to get ready to give Sherlock a visit.
God how he wanted to be drunk.
"Sherlock, take your shoes off."
"No reason to. I'm expecting company."
As much as he wished he could, John Watson couldn't honestly say he was surprised by this, just as he couldn't be surprised when at three in the morning, Sherlock had waken him up to demand an outing. They'd been chasing some random lead Sherlock had produced that Mycroft Holmes had been at the coffee shop across town purchasing something Sherlock deemed "must be top secret and dangerous". Only once they got to said coffee shop, it turned out the purcahse had been a semi-large box of donuts, which Sherlock had then gleefully pointed out was not on Mycroft's diet.
"Don't move then you'll track dirt everywhere." John griped, hands running through his hair as he surveyed the piece of carpet Sherlock was inhabiting. If they got it any dirtier, he would have to give it up as a lost cause and live knowing that the one thing that was still semi-intact in this hellhole of a flat would forever be doomed with erratic footstep-like dirt stains. As silly as it was to admit, he wasn't quite ready to take that step.
"Noted and ignored." Was Sherlock's infuriatingly bored-sounding response. Did he not understand that universe collapsed a little every time he moved? "Any chance of you making tea?"
No, no there was not. Certainly not at this hour of the morning while he watched Sherlock pat down his shirt, causing thousands of grains of dirt and lord knows what else to go on the carpet. Without even realizing it, he was suddenly dismissing Sherlock's carefully fortified personal space and had his hand fisted in the other man's collar "That's it. Take off your shirt."
"…Did you just tell me to-"
"Take off your shirt. Yes, I did." John sighed, shaking his head a bit. "I'd prefer it if you could just hand it to me now so we don't have to go through a world ending battle over a bit of fabric. The flat has suffered enough."
He raised an eyebrow in amusement but otherwise seemed distantly unconcerned with the growing tension and kick-ass in the doctor's frame. "I didn't know the flat concerned you so much." Sherlock said, reaching up a hand to try to pry John's off his shirt. "Though quite unfortunately for both you and the flat, I'm a consulting detective and not a stripper."
John tightened his grip. "I didn't call you a stripper, I said I wanted your shirt."
"Well you're not getting my shirt."
"But you're getting dirt everywhere!"
"So are you, I don't see you stripping."
"You'd like that wouldn't you, pervert!"
"You're a bloody hypocrite, you know that?"
"At least I'm not a fucking cad!"
"Please, your inaccurate mockery and antiqued insults don't impress me."
"Look, just give me your clothes so we can-"
"'Clothes'?" Sherlock repeated loudly, seemingly appalled "As in more than one article of clothing? What, you want my pants too?"
The elder remained silent
"Oh god you do! And you think I'm the pervert!"
"It's not like that!" John swore, a furious blush covering his face at the younger's implications. "You're ruining the carpet."
"The carpet can be cleaned or replaced. My dignity cannot."
"What dignity? You have no issue with closing the door when you shower, or if everyone in London thinks your gay."
"Poor examples."
"Dear lord, Sherlock! I'm not asking for your knickers-"
Sherlock tried to stop him with a firm look "I will not get naked for you John." He said seriously. It was just one of those little things he never thought he'd have to say. To John especially. His luscious body belonged to him and him alone. Not Anderson, not to his brother, not Sally, and certainly not John
"The hell you won't!" Snarled the ex-soldier grip tightening on Sherlock's belt "I'm the one who has to clean this mess up, so I say where and when you drop your trousers. Am I understood?"
Sherlock was trying to ignore the awkwardness of the whole situation. Really, he was a sociopath and he could still feel it. Albeit he was a high functioning one, it was still saying something. "Like your clothes are any better."
John nearly screamed. "Look," He snapped angrily, barely resisting the urge to just tackle Sherlock to the ground and make him take off his clothes. "let's try to do this logically, okay? Why won't you take your clothes off for me? Give me a good reason."
"I'll die."
"…Will not."
"Will too."
"You will not!"
"I will too! I'll get AIDS if I take my clothes off!" the detective insisted, his free arm making broad circles as to emphasize his point and hopefully hit john at least once… gently, of course.
John blinked "You…What? You don't get AIDS by taking your clothes off, Sherlock!"
"I beg to differ." Sherlock snipped; he'd obviously thought this wasn't something John would pursue. He was wrong.
Blatantly
Horribly
Wrong.
It was at that moment that John realized there was a frank unfairness in trying to get Sherlock naked. "If you don't give me your clothes I swear on whatever god you may believe in-"
"John, stop." And John did stop because Sherlock's tone was suddenly so lonely and solemn that it only seemed right that he stop, him being the gentleman that he was "If I tell you the real reason… Will you promise to let this whole silly thing stop?"
"You can tell me anything, Sherlock." John insisted quietly, wondering if he was finally going to get even the smallest of glimpses of what went on in the brilliant detective's mind. The flat's carpet was worth that, surely?
He took a deep breath, and then fixed John with a look filled with ominous foreboding and pained dread. "Right. So once upon a time, John, I was a youthful, innocent child who adored walking around London with his older brother; who, coincidently, loved to do his walking around in the nude. One day while doing said walking, we came upon an open bar and he insisted we enter despite his lack of proper attire. He was quite the adventurous pervert, you see. And as we walked in he screamed in a completely ludicrous manner 'Look at my bits!' It just so happened that his bits were looked upon and he was molested by a creepy old man that, upon pondering it, bears a uncanny resemblance to Mrs. Hudson. People began to gather around us to join the monstrosity of the pedophiliac relations of Mycroft and the questionably male Mrs. Hudson. I barely escaped with my pants and sanity intact and the experience, strangely enough, left me with a tragic fear of being indecent in front of doctors."
A few minutes of John staring in mortification at a blank and completely serious looking Sherlock passed. The sound of slamming car doors and annoyed grumbling outside was obnoxiously loud, but neither of them paid any mind to it. "Bull." John finally bit, ignoring Sherlock's slowly developing look of absolute childish glee. "That was possibly the worst story I've ever heard. Certainly one of the worst lies."
Sherlock sniffed disdainfully, and John wondered if Sherlock, instead of sleeping, spent his free hours carefully cultivating new ways to piss him off. "You're just jealous you didn't think of it first."
"Yes, because I desperately wish I could come up with stupid stories about your brother and Mrs. Hudson."
"Exactly. So glad we're on the same page." The detective clapped his hands then began to stand "Well, I'm retiring to my room now, have a wonderful-" A hand fisted itself in hanging fabric.
"You can go," John said quietly "as soon as you give me your clothes."
The grin slowly fell of Sherlock's face "It didn't distract you? At all?"
"No."
"That's somewhat of a disappointment."
"Such is life, Sherlock. Such is life."
Slowly Inspector Lestrade made his way up the staircase to the door of 221B Baker Street, grumbling about sociopaths and fake bomb threats the whole way up. Anderson had been placed in protective custody until he could talk to Sherlock, and he was not happy about it. Maybe today would be the day where he finally just arrested Sherlock and got it over with,
Fucking Sherlock
"-Stubborn bastard! Take. It. Off!" Lestrade blinked.
"No!" Sherlock's voice snapped, sounding… not angry but more that somewhat panicked. "Knock it off and stop groping me! I said 'please' earlier, that has to count for something!"
Groping?
"You didn't even say it nicely!" The other man's voice scoffed, followed by a rather loud yelp and the sound of fabric ripping "Your exact words were 'Please stop taking my clothes off you perverted twat.'"
"It counts for something!"
"No, it doesn't! And even if it did it's taken me this long to get you this far, I'm not doing this by half!"
From behind the door, there was a loud crash, followed by the high, panicked tones of Sherlock "Get off me and release my hands! Don't think I won't call Mrs. Hudson up here!"
"If you would've just stripped when I asked you to, we wouldn't have had to go through all this. I'm doing this with or without your consent, Sherlock." The doctor laughed lowly "I can't believe you didn't understand what I was doing with your belt."
Lestrade's eyes widened and horror slowly fisted in his stomach. Dear lord, the doctor… Was he really some sort of psychopath and Sherlock just hadn't picked up on it?
"You're going to ruin the table!" A last attempt, since Sherlock obviously didn't give a flying fuck about his flat or the items in it. That was it, this was not an emergency. Lestrade fumbled desperately in his pockets for the key that the landlady had given him the last time he'd needed to get into Sherlock's apartment. He had known there was something wrong with Doctor Watson.
He heard Watson sigh in obvious impatience "Would you rather do this on the floor?"
He just hadn't figured he'd be a pervert.
"Sherlock! Where the hell- my god!"
Spread across the table half dressed, was a very confused looking Sherlock with his hands tied above his head with John Watson's belt. Standing above him, the soon to be dead pervert. "Took you long enough." Sherlock grumbled.
Watson's eyes widened in realization as the handcuffs came out "He was tracking dirt!" He swore "I wasn't- I'm not-"
"A sight misunderstanding, Lestrade" Sherlock conceded, though he was still glaring at Watson. "Will you please get John off of me so I can preserve the last of my dignity?"
Lestrade couldn't help but to feel somewhat confused. "What dignity?"
"Ha!" John jeered "I told you!"
It was needless to say that John Watson then received what was possibly the most deadly glare he'd ever gotten.
After all, he'd gotten to see Sherlock naked before Lestrade.