"No." John folded down his newspaper. "No, absolutely not." He shook his head, huffing in disbelief, and leveraged himself out of his chair. "I don't know where he gets off, thinking this is okay, but it is absolutely not. You will be staying here." He crossed his arms, looking sternly at Sherlock.

"John, you're joking." The detective was resting lazily on the couch, half fallen off and making no move to rescue himself. He twisted his neck to regard John, veins popping and bangs flopping away from his forehead as his upside down face turned toward the blogger. "It's a whole country! Admittedly, not ours, and probably nowhere Mycroft should be interfering, but-"

"I said no, Sherlock. You're not going alone." He crossed the room and heaved his detective back onto the couch, sitting down across the taller man's lap. Sherlock's breath hitched in, then stuttered out.

"Preposterous."

"I've got ways to make you stay, Sherlock…" John teased, running his fingers gently through Sherlock's dark curls. Sherlock's eyes closed momentarily, reveling in the sensation of John's practiced touch.

"Yes, for a few hours perhaps, but how long until your stamina runs out?" Sherlock quipped, smiling slightly at John even as he tried to look aloof from what the ex-army doctor was doing.

"Pompous git."

"I'm curious, John!"

In the end, after much arguing, sarcastic silence, attempted sexual bribery, wheedling and resistance, it was decided that Sherlock would indeed take up Mycroft's offer to be sent to some (top secret) foreign land in an attempt to save the life of the current leader- or something. It wasn't exactly clear, which only made John less willing to agree to Mycroft's 'Sherlock only' demand. John was not particularly happy, and neither was Sherlock for that matter, but Mycroft was smugly preening when they called him to give assent. He had counted on his brother's curiosity, boredom, and wayward nature to build up the argument for going, though he'd worried that Sherlock's disdain for him (Mycroft) and love for John might work against the detective's brain and convince him to stay. Luckily, Sherlock still seemed to be functioning on the basis of head over heart (thank God; Mycroft wouldn't know what to do with a sappy Sherlock), and he had proven amenable- though somewhat insolent.

"Where exactly are you sticking your nose this time, Mycroft?" He sneered on the phone.

"You'll know when you need to, dear brother. Patience."

"Hmph. At least tell me what to pack." Mycroft could practically hear Sherlock rolling his eyes as he impudently answered back.

"Clothes."

"No shit, Mycroft."

"Swearing, Sherlock? Tut tut, John's had a poor effect on your vocabulary."

"My vocabulary's just fine, you bastard, now tell me what to pack."

"I have the feeling that you'll simply bring what you want to, no matter what I tell you. I'll have someone waiting for you at your connection with instructions, proper equipment, and clothes. Bring your own basics; see you at Heathrow at noon on Monday." Mycroft hung up and leant back in his chair, steepling his fingertips against his mouth.

Sherlock flung his phone moodily at the couch, narrowly missing John's knee. "Bastard didn't tell me where I'm going. Didn't even give me a chance to mock his diet. He ate two biscuits this morning; I could hear his back teeth sticking together. Sugary paste. Ugh." He threw himself melodramatically down, head in John's lap.

"Still ignoring you." John folded his arms, looking upwards, away from the dark-haired head resting on his leg.

"Oh? What if I…" And with no further warning, Sherlock rolled over and pressed his mouth to John's groin, huffing out a warm breath.

The blogger jumped, hips jerking. "Oh god, Sherlock-"

"Knew it. Weak will." Sherlock spoke without moving his head, and every word made John squirm. He knotted one hand in Sherlock's disheveled hair as the detective began trying to work John's trousers open.

"Mmm. If you say so. Just keep going."