Rated M for adult situations and language. And because later Acts get a bit smutty.
Act 1
John arrived at the crime scene only a few minutes after the consulting detective. Sherlock was already studying the bare spot on the wall, where an extremely valuable Turner should have been hanging. He completely ignored John's arrival, as did the Yarders who were milling about, ostensibly looking for clues, no doubt.
Feeling quite superfluous, John stood to the side and admired the works of art on display, at this very rich person's home. He tried not to gawk like a tourist.
He admired a couple of sketches of ballerinas. Degas, he wondered? He was pleased that he could dredge up any artist's name, so many years after his Survey of Art class.
He looked at a couple of odd canvases which were an unpleasant shade of ocher blended with a desert sunset orange and then streaked with black and purple squiggles. Since there were no plaques on any of the art, he decided to call them The Dire Diptych. He shrugged. He liked the ballerinas better.
Sherlock was orbiting a cleaning bucket and harassing a junior detective, while Sally Donovan spat out some perfunctory insults. Doctor Watson should not even have bothered coming really. He served no purpose here. Sherlock probably didn't even know John was here. The doctor enjoyed a large landscape painting that looked vaguely French country-side. Ha, it was probably something out of the U.S. How would John know? He hadn't been in an art gallery for years, unless you counted those ill-fated trips to the National Gallery, which led to the death of poor Soo Lin Yao.
John meandered closer to the knot surrounding Sherlock.
"Of course the bucket is meaningless," announced the consulting detective, his tone scathing. John was just glad that it wasn't directed at him. "By all means, let Anderson dust it for fingerprints or test it for semen or whatever... At least maybe that will keep him out of my way!"
Yeah, maybe it was just as well that Sherlock didn't know that John had arrived.
Sherlock strode over to a glass sculpture standing on a pedestal in the middle of the room. He circled it several times, like an over-sized raptor. Then he stooped to examine it with his pocket magnifier in several different spots, before swooping of in search of better prey.
Feeling very much out-of-place, the former army doctor wandered over to the plinth bearing the twisted glass vase-thingy. It looked like claret, which had been flash-frozen just as it was poured and then morphed into an eggplant. Maybe it should be named Frozen Claret? Cabernet on Ice? Cabernet and the Eggplant?
While the top was a lovely crimson-red, the base was a rich, gorgeous dark plumy-purple. John leaned closer admiring the color, because it was the perfect color. It was his favorite color. It was the purple shirt of sex color.
He hummed, imagining that shirt and the marble-like chest underneath the shirt and…
"Fascinating, isn't it?" said a very pretty, very posh platinum blonde who sashayed over in her shiny, silver stiletto heels which clashed a bit with her fitted bronze suit-dress. However, John noticed that even in her very high heels, she wasn't any taller than him. That was a nice change, thought John with a smile. A very nice change indeed.
"Yes, I like the colors," said John simply. He forgot, for just that critical moment, that posh platinum blonds, who wore silver stilettos, generally didn't respect simple honesty from regular old blokes like John Watson.
The blonde woman's Adler-red mouth turned down in an unattractive sneer. "I suppose you would like the colors," she said, managing to sound very Mycrofty-ish to Doctor Watson.
This thoughtless contempt, on top of being ignored by his posh consulting detective for nearly a week, rubbed John Watson the wrong way. He pursed his lips and then flashed her a smile, which did not quite reach his cobalt-blue eyes. John unconsciously shifted into parade rest as he prepared for verbal sparring with Ms. Stiletto of the Upper Crust.
She, unfortunately, did not recognize John's battle stance and she continued instructing, "Still, if one looks beyond the pretty Crayola colors, if one tried to use ones mind to appreciate the flowing, amorphous mass…"
"…of crimson which is strong, powerful yet paired with the inherent brittleness and transparency of glass, why then one can sense the metaphor," said John Watson. His soft seductive voice somehow penetrated the crowded room, in spite of the natterings from the forensics team and murmurous detectives.
"I'd say it's a metaphor for the transience of passion, all the usual passions," he said dismissively, as if passions bored him to tears. "You, know," he said confidingly to the platinum blond. "Love, hate, fear, jealousy, longing...ardor...desire." John's voice dropped to a husky level, and the room became a bit quieter.
He continued in a harsh stage whisper, like one lover to another, "But I think…that it goes beyond feelings… what it truly represents is the transience of orgasmic ecstasy."
The Yarders silenced completely to listen to John discuss the metaphor of the glass sculpture of sex.
The blond lady shook back her hair and gazed appraisingly at the unassuming blond-grey man, who, much to her surprise, seemed to be a serious art critic. "The sanguine red is subsumed by the dark, ominous purple," she said somewhat breathlessly, "I feel the artist is reflecting on the way men dominate women…"
"And yet the claret is on top, she is dominant, reflecting the new dynamic in the 21st century when the old traditions fail and women dominate men, when the weak become strong." said John crisply. "You know the static purple with the crimson riding on top, it reminds me...of bondage."
"Ohh," sighed the blonde woman flushing deeply. "Has she conquered him?" she asked with a gasp.
"Maybe," said John rocking on his heels, hands still fisted behind his back. He kept his face firmly fixed on the sculpture of sex. "Maybe. The transparent medium feels open; I think it's consensual. Fully consensual bondage, the dominatrix and her sub…But she is in control. She is on top and riding her mate. And the artist has captured the moment of her climax. She cries out to the Earth Mother in victory as the orgasm flows through her like the claret flowing into the aubergine below. And he writhes helplessly beneath her, fully at her mercy…begging for release."
"Ohh, ohhh!" murmured the blonde, grabbing a hold of John's arm.
"Shhhite," someone in the room muttered.
A loud snap echoed through the room, as Sherlock with a white face and pinched lips removed his gloves.
"The cleaning agency did it," snapped the consulting detective angrily to Lestrade. "You'll find some of their finger prints on Watson's orgasmic sculpture. At least one of them found the work as compelling as does our doctor." The detective whirled to leave, his gloomy, gunmetal-grey coat swirled in an ominous foreshadowing of John's dark doom.
"No wait," said Lestrade. "I need details…Sherlock!"
"I'll text you later," boomed the voice, which was already halfway down the long hall, connecting the private gallery to the main house.
"Ahhh," said John, as carmine faintly colored his cheeks. "I best be…ah, going?" he pointed towards the now silent hallway. He ignored the Yarder's stares.
"Wait!" called the posh woman. "Wait, I'm Madeline. Here's my card. Call me." She ended with a loud, desperate whisper, which everyone heard.
John shrugged helplessly as he backed away towards the exit. "Can't really. Um…jealous boyfriend and, um, all that." He shrugged again with a disingenuous smile.
Anderson dropped his lab kit with a loud clatter, amid a few gasps of astonishment.
John headed toward the hallway, biting his lip. Sherlock was a possessive lover, a very possessive and very jealous lover. And Sherlock just might have thought that John was flirting, which he wasn't, of course. He was only taking the piss, yeah?
Then too, John had just outted himself and his boyfriend to Scotland Yard. Not that they'd decided to keep their relationship a secret forever, but…it was all a bit not good.
John picked up speed, nearly running down the hall.
"What the hell was that?" demanded Donovan. She and Lestrade were chasing John back towards the main house and the exit.
"Yeah. What the HELL was that?" echoed Lestrade, looking confused.
"What? The art thing?" asked John hurrying, even though he knew Sherlock was probably long gone by now. "That's just a little trick I learned at Uni…um, I learned from…from an art major. It works with any piece of work, but it works best for modern art. You just look at the art and then bring it all back to violence or sex," he paused for a second and rubbed his mouth. "…especially violence and sex. Those pseudo-Nazi-art-critic types eat it up. Frankly, I just liked the colors; I liked the aubergine at the bottom of the glass-vase-sculpture-thingy. It's a…a nice color. The vase'd be nice for holding tulips I think. Purple tulips."
"Tulips?" asked Donovan, her mouth opened in disbelief.
"No! Not that!" exclaimed Lestrade. "Well, not only that. Christ, John! You said jealous boyfriend."
"Yeah!" said Sally Donovan her eyes wide with excitement. "That's what you said."
John kept walking past more Yarders. He pinched his lower lip and sighed. "Yeah. All right. As a matter of fact I should probably go find him now…"
"All right? Find him? You mean you and Sherlock? When were you going to tell me?" demanded Lestrade.
"Ummm, today?" said John.
"I love it!" said Sergeant Donovan gleefully. "Thank you. Thank you very much, Doctor Watson. I think I just won sixty pounds."
John tilted his head and furrowed his brow, trying to figure out what Sally was on about.
"Jesus. You and Sherlock! I knew it," repeated Lestrade. "I knew it!"
John thought that it was good that Sherlock wasn't there, since the consulting detective hated repetition.
Donovan peered out the cut glass window next to the door. "Uh Oh! Looks like your jealous boyfriend is waiting for you," said Sally with an evil grin. "Nice knowing ya, Doctor Watson."
"Yeah, good luck mate," said Lestrade beginning to grin. He patted John on the shoulder as the shorter man hurried through the double doors.
The detective inspector's smile faded, when Sherlock viciously dragged John down the steps and all but manhandled the blond into a taxi.
A/N Thank you for reading this ficlet. Review's, con-crit and comments welcomed.
Oh, who am I kidding? I love reviews and honestly appreciate con-crit and suggestions. I live for pithy comments and silly jokes and you know...reviews.
So...join the queue, please review. (I'm sorry, that was a really bad rhyme. I'm so sorry.)
:D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D
Oh right, thanks for the reminder…
DISCLAIMER I do not own the rights to anything Sherlocky or John-Watsony. Thank goodness, right? :D