Mary
Sherlock slapped the newspaper onto the dining table in 221B Baker Street, making the housemaid Mary jump.
"The 'Professor' strikes again! Insufferable con won't even let his lackeys see his face! No one's got a clue who he is, even the men who work for him."
John glanced sideways at Sherlock. As annoyed as Sherlock was pretending to be, John knew he was thrilled. Finally, a real case to free Sherlock from the "stagnation" he was forever moaning about. John gave a chuckle as he stood up, stepping into the kitchen to snatch up one of Mary's rolls. She gave him a sly look but didn't stop him.
"Have you tried Mary's rolls? She's like Mrs. Hudson, except ten times better…and less nosy."
Mary smiled to herself as she saw to the soup in the kitchen, and Sherlock gave the roll a spiteful glare. "Perhaps you'd be happier with Mycroft. The two of you could flit about town consuming nothing but pastries to your heart's content," he snapped.
"Yes, well Mycroft won't be born to eat pastries for several more decades," John jabbed back, then immediately regretted it. Sherlock hadn't talked about Mycroft since they'd come to live in 1895.
He cleared his throat and stood to wind a striped knit scarf around his neck that Sherlock had never seen before. "I'm off to meet some men from the hospital. They want to attend a show and smoke cigars and swirl brandy and the like. Should be…interesting," John said. "Save me a bit of supper, will you, Mary?" he called into the kitchen.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John's scarf. "Oh. Brilliant. And she's made you a scarf," he observed, then dropped his voice so Mary couldn't hear. "Why don't you two just get married? That's what fine, upstanding doctors are supposed to do, aren't they? Find a nice wife and settle down?"
John bristled, yanking open the door. "She's making a scarf for you as well, you know. Navy blue. Like your old one. There's nothing wrong with making friend. Just because you never bothered with them doesn't mean us 'normals' can't." Once again, he wanted to swallow back his words. He knew how childish he sounded, but instead of apologizing or trying to backtrack, he left, slamming the door before Sherlock could yell back a retort.
Mary came in a few minutes later with a piping bowl of soup and another bowl of potatoes. She'd been employed as their housekeeper for several months now, and had learned that Sherlock could be blunt or hurtful or distracted, so she tried her best to stay out of his way. "I hope you like the soup," she said, knowing there was a sizeable chance that he wouldn't touch it.
"Whether I like it or not is irrelevant," Sherlock said, picking up the paper once more.
Not satisfied, Mary walked over to him. "What are your favorite dishes, Mr. Holmes? I'd happily prepare them if you gave me the chance. It's just that…not many people turn up my cooking like you do, and I'm here to make you happy."
Sherlock gave a short, annoyed sigh. "I haven't got a favorite dish. Eating for enjoyment expends energy that could be spent on more productive things. It's transport. Fuel. Nothing more. John is the only you one need to care about pleasing, and you are, obviously, as he won't shut up about you." He turned the page of the paper with a loud snap.
Mary blushed, Sherlock noticed with considerable annoyance from the corner of his eye. "He doesn't? Erm, what I mean is, sir, I won't take offense to your indifference to my food, then." She smiled a bit. "Though few have tasted my treacle fudge without cracking a smile."
"Fudge doesn't make me smile. Treacle or otherwise."
Mary sighed, finally giving up, and bobbed a curtsey. "If there's anything else you need, I'll be tending to Mr. Doyle downstairs," she said, and disappeared.
Over the next week, Sherlock couldn't help but notice every time John and Mary talked, even if it was a polite greeting, and he couldn't help but feel an unpleasant twinge at the base of his stomach when John praised her. Was this what jealousy felt like? Such a pointless emotion.
Yet he felt it again a few days later, when John was in the kitchen conversing with Mary, leaving Sherlock studying tobacco ash varieties under his magnifying glass. He was more than glad to answer the bell when it rang; anything to distract him from John and Mary's incessant, enthusiastic talking. He was careful to hide his elation at finding DI Gregson at the door: A Yard inspector was asking for his consultation!
"What's happened?" he asked, leading the inspector up the stairs to his flat.
"A robbery, with two homicides. Will you come?"
Sherlock's mouth twitched up for a moment. "Of course, let me get my coat."
John stepped out of the kitchen. "Another one?" he asked, looking at Gregson and then at Sherlock, who was hurriedly pulling on his coat and hat. Not a deerstalker, but a proper top hat John had bought a few days ago for him.
"Robbery, two deaths," Sherlock said.
John strode over to grab his own coat. "Can I come?"
Sherlock sidled up beside him ad hissed quietly, "Are you sure you wouldn't rather stay here chatting up Mary?"
"What are you on about? Let me come with you. I can help, and it's been ages since I've been able to go on a case," John begged.
Gregson raised an eyebrow at John. "And who are you?"
"My colleague," Sherlock said. "Apparently he's decided to come with."
Since Sherlock refused to introduce him further, John held out his hand. "Dr. John Watson. Pleasure to meet you."
"Ahh, you're Dr. Watson, like from the stories? You write up the adventures?"
"No, no, Mr. Doyle does, I'm afraid," John said. "He just writes from my perspective."
"I didn't know you really existed! Sherlock's never mentioned you," Gregson said.
John gave Sherlock a sideways look. "Well, he tends to keep his colleagues on the backburner, since they generally can't live up to his massive intellect. Shall we?"
Sherlock shot daggers at John, but didn't say anything as they headed down the stairs and got in the Gregson's waiting carriage.
After a silent ride, only punctuated by the occasional question about the case from Sherlock, they arrived at the crime scene and Sherlock stepped to look around it. It had been a grisly business, the deaths.
John circled the bodies as well, then took out a notepad and jotted down notes as Sherlock rattled off his observations to the astonished Gregson. John also noted that Sherlock was being more of an ass than usual, calling Gregson and idiot multiple times.
John finally yanked him over for a "closer look at a head wound."
"Sherlock, ease up! You need some people on your side, because right now you're pushing me to the edge!"
Sherlock glared up at him. "I'm not here to make friends, John, and if you'll recall, I didn't ask you to come! If you don't like the way I work, then you are more than welcome to leave." He stood back up and circled around the other body.
John clenched his teeth. "Fine. See you at the flat. Maybe." He stalked off, furious.
Sherlock, however, didn't even both looking up, focusing his attention on his work, though his words were more taut and he continued acting snappish for the rest of the investigation.
When Sherlock returned home, John was just sitting down to dinner, and Mary was sitting in Sherlock's usual spot. John immediately reddened and Mary stood up, embarrassed. "Sorry—I didn't think you'd be home in time," John said.
Sherlock looked between the two of them, then said coldly, "It's fine, I'm not hungry anyway."
"I'll eat in the kitchen, sir," Mary said, grabbing her plate. "It was wrong of me to sit here in the first place."
"Mary, it's all right. I already invited you to eat at the table with us. There's room for three," John said, urging Mary to sit down again.
"By all means, continue your dinner," Sherlock said, then disappeared into his and John's room, knowing John wouldn't follow him while Mary was around. Irritated and somewhat injured, he buried himself in some case accounts he was re-writing, all the while listening to John's and Mary's conversation. John was being his usual charming self, perhaps not meaning to be flirtatious but coming off that way anyway. It felt like ages before the sounds of dinner plates being stacked and cleared filled the next room and the door to the flat finally opened and closed.
John opened the bedroom door. "She's gone. Are you quite done sulking?"
Sherlock didn't look up from his notes. "I am well aware that she is gone."
"Why do you hate her so much? She's genuinely trying to make your life more comfortable, and you sulk around like a child. It's embarrassing."
Sherlock wrote a bit more furiously. "I don't hate Mary. You've jumped to a conclusion based on pure speculation."
"Then why are you angry?"
"I'm not angry. I wasn't hungry."
"Lovely. The denial and passive aggressive behavior's really charming. I'm going to sleep in Hamish's room tonight, if that's fine with you." Hamish was off at school until the weekend, so the bedroom was free.
Sherlock finally raised his eyes to look at John. "More than."
"Excellent." John stopped over to the dresser and yanked out his pyjamas. He turned to leave, stopped, then turned back to Sherlock. "Sherlock, be honest- are you jealous of Mary? Because obviously there's nothing going on there."
Sherlock looked up from his notes to look out the window, snorting in bitter amusement. "Surely you haven't fooled yourself into thinking there is nothing going between you two. A blind man could see it." He paused for a moment. "I understand, though. There are certain rules and taboos in this century. You and Mary could go out and be seen together. In fact, as a man of your career standing, it would be frowned upon if you didn't find a wife soon. I hardly can blame you for entertaining the idea."
"Sherlock, you're being ridiculous! This isn't even up for discussion. I'm not some fickle berk who's going to run off with someone else, so stop being such a self-pitying mope."
Sherlock refused to look at him. "Goodnight, John."
John left and stomped up the stairs, sick of dealing with Sherlock's melancholy mood.
John and Sherlock slept in separate beds over the next few nights. A few days later, Sherlock came home from an unfruitful walk around the area and stopped at the door of the flat, unable to help himself from eavesdropping on a conversation between John and Mary.
"Your wife...when did she die?"
"Not long after Hamish was born."
"So long? What I mean is, it's a surprise you haven't remarried. A...kind man like you. I don't mean to say the death isn't hard still, of course it must be."
"Yes, well...some men are better off as bachelors, you know."
"You mean like Mr. Holmes? I can't imagine him ever marrying."
"Neither can I." John's voice was bitter, and Sherlock clenched his jaw, trying not to let John's tone affect him.
"What an eccentric flatmate he must be!"
"You have no idea. I just feel lucky he hasn't driven away our most excellent housekeeper..."
There was a pause in the conversation. Sherlock strained his ear against the door, but no voice emerged for several moments.
"I'm sorry!" Mary finally said. "That was—I shouldn't have—"
"No, it wasn't that—Mary, you don't have to leave—"
Sherlock quickly backed away from the door and pretended to just be arriving when Mary exited, cheeks red.
She mumbled an apology and gave a quick curtsy before hurrying past him down the stairs.
Sherlock stalked into the room, slamming the door. He was fuming as he looked at John. "If you'd like your eccentric flatmate to move out so the happy couple can continue in peace, let me know," he said, his voice venomous.
"Sherlock, were you spying on me?" John stood up, outraged.
"I overheard! It doesn't take much spying to figure out what's going on, John!" Sherlock's voice rose. "How long have you been planning on snogging her, then?"
John stalked up to him. "What the hell are you talking about?! Mary tried to kiss me and I pulled away. Yes, obviously we're getting married tomorrow! You're a self-proclaimed sociopath, so maybe you should try and stop interpreting others' relationships, because you're shit at it!"
"Oh, please! You may have pulled away, but it certainly TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH! Or for those few minutes were you just adoringly staring into each others' eyes?"
"You're acting like a child. I told you the truth- she tried to kiss me and I turned her down. All right? I was just being friendly and she took it the wrong way. Maybe if you weren't excluding me from cases I wouldn't be around her so often!"
"I wasn't aware 'being friendly' included shoving your tongue down other people's throats! And don't you dare try and pin this all on me! You spend virtually all day, every day at St. Bart's, leaving me here with nothing to do! You can hardly blame me for not waiting for you every time a case comes up!"
John stared at him in disbelief for a moment. He dropped his voice and said condescendingly, "Well, excuse me for making a living so you can afford to sit around thinking or walking aimlessly looking for cases because you're too good to work."
Sherlock ground his teeth and bored his cold gray eyes into John's before saying coolly, "I didn't realize I was such a burden to you. Don't worry, I'll be gone by the time Mary comes back to prepare dinner." He headed for the bedroom, fully intending on packing up. If John didn't want him anymore, he wasn't about to stick around.
John grabbed his arm to stop him, yanking him back towards him and then shoved him until his back hit the wall. "Get this through your thick, delusional skull, you knob. There's nothing going on with Mary and me! If you can't believe that, then that means you can't trust me. Do you trust me at all?"
John was fuming, his cheeks flushed and his eyes flashing.
Sherlock stared him up and down for moment. He was close enough that his hot breath was hitting John's cheek.
He grabbed John's shoulders and kissed him. John gave a muffled noise of surprise, then pushed him away. "A kiss doesn't qualify as an answer! You think I'd let myself be trapped in another century with a man I'd flippantly dump a month later?"
In lieu of an answer, Sherlock kissed John again, pulling John closer to him, one hand at the small of his back, the other wrapping under John's ear and pulling at the back of his neck.
John, still upset, tried to struggle away from him, his face flushed, his voice a bit softer now. "You still haven't answered me. Kissing me doesn't just fix the fact that you've been utterly ridiculous lately."
Sherlock murmured into John's mouth, "Oh, shut up. As if you haven't been a complete flirt. Proper Victorian housemaids don't kiss their employers without some form of approval. You've been leading her on since you got here." He ran his fingers through John's hair, pausing to kiss him more deeply, then mumbled, "Idiot…"
John alternated between kissing Sherlock—God, even when he was mad he couldn't get enough—and trying to struggle away from him so he could defend himself. He finally pushed him away. "I was just—being friendly! Sherlock, you have to trust me."
Sherlock stepped away from the wall. "Do you trust Mary, John?"
"I trust her as a housekeeper," John said.
"I want you to tell her about us, John."
John frowned at the idea. He hadn't the slightest notion of how homosexuality was viewed in Victorian England. Was it even legal? He doubted it was at all acceptable. "But—she might quit. She might be so uncomfortable that she quits working for Arthur. She could spread gossip about it on the street and ruin your name. No more clients. Is that what you want?"
"I'm aware of the risks, John. At the very least tell her that there's someone else. Make it clear that there is no way you and she can ever work. I don't—" Sherlock gritted his teeth, not wanting to admit the truth, but finally said quietly, "I don't want to compete for you."
John shook his head at him. "You never have to compete for me. It's like I said, you have me, all of me, whether you want it or not. I'll think of something to tell Mary. I promise."
Sherlock nodded, but didn't say anything.
"So, what else do you want from me? I've loved you far longer than you've loved me, and I still get this feeling that I'm being fickle—it's really unfair."
Sherlock's anger resurfaced. "Unfair? Unfair? How would you feel if I started flirting with Mary? How would you feel if I started spending more time with her than you? How would you feel if every time she came into the room she holds all of my attention! It doesn't matter if you loved me first! I am here here now! I. Am. Here! Where the HELL are YOU?!"
John glared at him, then grabbed him by the neck with both hands and kissed him forcefully, making Sherlock's knees buckle as John pushed his mouth open with his tongue, then pulled away to murmur, "I'm right here."
Sherlock only paused for a quick breath of air before he began hungrily kissing John back, ripping his jacket off and pulling him closer.
John murmured into his mouth as he kissed him, "You son of a bitch. I'm right here."
Sherlock grabbed onto John's shirt and pulled him into the bedroom, kissing him the whole way, refusing to let him go. Once inside, John pulled Sherlock down onto the bed, clawing at his back. Sherlock didn't waste a moment in grinding his hips against his, then began unbuttoning John's shirt.
John groaned against Sherlock's lips, furiously ripping at the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, running his free hand over Sherlock's throat and squeezing it briefly. Once their shirts had been cast onto the floor, John rolled over to pin Sherlock to the bed, forcing his head back so he could bite and lick up Sherlock's neck, digging his nails into Sherlock's arms.
"You bloody idiot. How could you ever doubt that I want you?" John asked breathily as Sherlock groaned and arched his back to press his chest against John's.
John grabbed Sherlock's hands from his back and pinned them to the bed above his head. "Say you're sorry."
"I think you're the one that owes me an apology," Sherlock said, looking daringly up at John.
John bent to lick slowly up his neck, then paused with his lips barely touching Sherlock's. "Just say it."
Sherlock bit back a groan. "Just because you've got me here doesn't mean I wasn't right." He craned his neck up towards John and growled, "You kissed the housekeeper. You're in the wrong, admit it."
"She tried to kiss me. And failed I might add," John muttered, then dipped his head down to drag out Sherlock's lower lip with his teeth, giving it a quick suck.
"And you've been flirting with her since day one."
"I didn't mean to, honestly." John gave him a light kiss. "I guess I need to turn down my charms. It won't happen again, and I'm sorry. Satisfied?"
Sherlock struggled to free his wrists from John's grip, but John moved to grasp both of Sherlock's wrists with one hand, the other moving to his throat to pin it against the bed, then he licked along Sherlock's cheekbone, traveling his mouth to his ear. "I said I'm sorry. Your turn."
Sherlock moaned as John began to nibble at his ear. "Sorry," he breathed, closing his eyes.
John examined Sherlock's face, enjoying having him trapped, all to himself. The past few nights alone in Hamish's room had been unbearable. "I could get used to this," he murmured, beginning to grind his hips slowly against Sherlock's. He loosened his grip on Sherlock's wrists and throat, but Sherlock didn't try to break free, apart from arching his neck up to catch John's lips in another kiss and wrapping a leg around John to pull him even closer.
John felt Sherlock's erection pressing against him and couldn't bear it anymore. He moved his hands down Sherlock's chest and torso, then began yanking off his trousers, grabbing at his cock, then slid down and grabbed the base, licking a circle around the head.
Sherlock groaned and dug his fingers into John's shoulders, wanting more friction.
John tormented him for a bit, trailing his tongue lightly up and down the veins and moving his hand up to fondle his balls, giving them a quick squeeze.
"Ungh, fuck, John!" Sherlock bucked his hips, wanting John to move faster.
John wrapped his hands around Sherlock's arched back, taking him in his mouth at last, pulling in and out, easing off occasionally before setting in again, causing Sherlock's pleasure to roll in waves.
Sherlock moaned and moved his foot along John's ankle. John sucked faster, tightening his lips around Sherlock, then reached a hand down to touch himself, sucking and pumping the base of Sherlock's cock with his free hand.
When Sherlock finally came, John pulled away and finished himself, gasping into Sherlock's hip, then drew himself up to Sherlock's mouth and kissed him. "Apology accepted?"
Sherlock nodded weakly, and wrapped his arm around John, holding him until they both fell asleep.
/Why/ did this turn him on?! Why did this feel so good?! The only sort of relationships John had been in before had been strictly vanilla, and this was such a huge jump from that, he was surprised that he didn't mind in.