Get off Easy

John Watson would not let this happen again. A familiar sound echoed from Sherlock's phone, the very vulgar, very unwelcome sound. Irene Adler. For once, he was glad Sherlock had sent him off on a task he could easily do himself. Apparently, Sherlock had fled their flat after he had come to the conclusion that Mycroft would be stopping in for a surprise visit. John was sure he had some sort of tunnel system to be able to get away from his brother.

After receiving a text from Lestrade's number instructing him to gather Sherlock's phone from his bedroom, John had been forced to make his way home and collect his lover's mobile. Then it happened.

Hello Again Mr. Holmes.

It couldn't be true. She was dead. She was suppose to be dead. Sherlock. Oh god, he hadn't. Sure, there were dozens of other possibilities, but John knew they weren't true. No, Sherlock had helped her, once again, pretend to be dead. That was over two years ago. Why would she try to contact him now? Why now? They had just finally made some progress. Great progress! She had really messed him up good last time.

He turned Sherlock's phone off and pocketed it. He refused to give it back, plain and simple. He wouldn't let this happen; for Sherlock's own good. Over the next hour, he received dozens of messages for Lestrade (who John had decided had had his phone stolen by Sherlock) demanding to know where he was between the 'Jonh. John. JOHN. Johnjonhjohn.' messages. John ignored them.

He made himself a cup of tea and he thought. Finally, he received a last message.

Is Mycroft gone, at least?

Mycroft was never here, Sherlock.

That was strange. He was almost sure Mycroft was planning a surprise visit. It occurred to Sherlock that his brother only made him think he was going to surprise him so he could really surprise him later. Probably in some askew location during an important case. He frowned indignantly, flexing his riding crop between both hands. He stood in one corner of the morgue, making the little Molly Hooper incredibly uncomfortable. He wasn't paying her any mind, however. This was the one place he could think of hiding where both Mycroft and Lestrade wouldn't bother him.

That was untrue. Lestrade had badgered him twice about the were abouts of his phone, but Sherlock still had it, so he counted it as a win. Mycroft knew he was here, but obviously had more important things.

"I'll be leaving now," He was tempted to comment on her obviously over worn perfume, but John had insisted he not say anything if it wasn't nice. He wasn't sure if it was nice or not, so it was best not to make John needlessly upset with him.

"You know it doesn't require the whole bottle, right?" Alright, so, he couldn't help himself, but that was just awful feminine quality. She looked disappointed and thoroughly embarrassed but Sherlock was gone before she could start stumbling over her words.

He returned home (after innocently claiming to have 'found' Lestrade's phone) and found John with a distant look on his face, sitting in the quiet and moving very little. He was worried for a moment, knowing John hadn't heard him come in.

"John?" It was all he needed to get his boyfriend's attention. The blonde looked at him quickly, hazel eyes alert and curious.

"Yes Sherlock?"

"My phone," Sherlock demanded politely. As politely as possible. John looked away again and gave a small shake of the head.

"Oh. You can't have it," Came the simple response. Sherlock had to run the sentence through his mind a few times. John obviously had it, he could see the excess bulge in his pocket, but that wasn't what he said. He said he couldn't have it.

John knew that if he had told Sherlock he hadn't found it, Sherlock would take it as a challenge and instantly find it no matter where John had hid it. He also knew that he could give the man no room to push him. He had confiscated his phone and Sherlock couldn't have it.

"And why not?" A trick question. Sherlock didn't care.

"You've been naughty with it, Sherlock." John responded blandly. He knew that as long as he left his accusation open, Sherlock will fill them. It worked a total of two times before the taller male caught wind (which was one time too many to have been on accident) and learned to drag John into a hole.

"If this is about those vulgar texts to Mycroft, he deserved it." He insisted, raising his chin definitely.

"You know what you did." John answered without agreeing or disagreeing. Sherlock had lied before and when John claimed that, that was the reason, Sherlock would reply with 'good because I didn't do that' and get himself off the hook. Not this time.

So Sherlock would pout and sulk (though he claimed he didn't) and stared intently at John's pocket. After nearly a half hour of tense silence between the two, John remembered his paper and plucked it off the table to read. This only further irritated Sherlock. He was thinking and John didn't like it. No matter what he did, John would not allow him to have contact with ithat/i woman. Sure enough, Sherlock tried everything that had ever worked before.

"But John," He whined, peeking puppy eyes over the edge of paper. John stared him down until he backed away. This was also a challenge to Sherlock. He wouldn't physically try to take the phone back from him, certainly not. He was going to try to make John give it to him with his little tricks and mind fucks. Which John very much hated in these situations.

More silence. John had to lower his paper to make sure his lover wasn't doing anything dangerous. Or stupid. He wasn't, though John sorely wished he was. Instead, the man was slowly and steadily unbuttoning his wonderfully purple shirt; exposing his pale chest and staring at him as if he was doing no wrong. John flickered his paper up again.

"No rhyme or reason tonight then, hm." He observed quietly. To suddenly jump from the innocent puppy eyes to seduction meant Sherlock was desperate to get his phone back and rightfully so. He caused all sorts of trouble with it, including pestering John even when he was right upstairs. It also meant he was trying to throw him off. The squeak of the couch meant John had won; for now.

"You'll live without your phone, Sherlock. You can have it back when you learn to stop using it for evil." To appease to Sherlock's view of the world.

"There are two things wrong with that John. One; If you will not give it back to me, how can I learn anything? Second; I would hardly call my actions 'evil'. I was bored."

"There are other ways to relieve your boredom."

"You won't give me my ammunition back until we're on a case and you carry your pistol everywhere." Blowing holes in the wall was one thing. Shooting their last gallon of milk had been a pain in his arse. But nearly blowing a hole through Mrs. Hudson's hand was just too far.

"And you took away my crossbow, too."

"That was not an appropriate use of a crossbow."

"It was an experiment."

"That does not mean you can attempt to shoot everything in the house." Apparently to see how 'powerful' it was. John was sure it was just to be destructive as Sherlock was so prone to do. They required a new tv and John's pillow was never the same.

"And my chemistry set." The paper flickered down again and John glared viciously at him.

"That was for your own safety. Consulting Detectives have no use for explosives of any kind."

"I was not going to blow myself up on accident."

"Certainly not. I just had to pick shrapnel out of both your hands for an hour."

"That technically wasn't an explosion." There was another long moment of nothing while Sherlock attempted to think of something he could do to cure his boredom that John would approve of. John certainly didn't suggest anything. It could be because Sherlock instant shot down his dull ideas. There weren't a lot of choices.

"How long until I can have my phone back?" Sherlock was, indeed, a man child.

"When you learn to use it responsibly."

Sherlock didn't like this. It had been three days since John confiscated his phone. He didn't think sending dirty messages to Mycroft, half the police force, and a dead man really warranted that. He stole John's phone, though 'stole' wasn't the right word. He was sure John left it about to test him. If that was the case, he was doing good! He hadn't sent 'evil' messages to anyone. John kept his phone close at hand at all times. Even while he was sleeping.

Sherlock knew something strange was up. John was going to great lengths to keep his own phone away from him. Very strange.

He was experimenting again today. Actually, he wouldn't call it that. John had bought him a child's chemistry set. To make candy. Sugar free candy. For his brother. John insisted that it was just as amusing and less deadly. While Sherlock wouldn't admit that it was rather fun, he couldn't help but attempt to ruin every batch. Mycroft wasn't going to eat it anyways.

"No sugar, Sherlock." John murmured from where he sat watching his boyfriend through his boredom. Sherlock would never understand how he could just sit there and do absolutely nothing. If they didn't get a case soon, he was going to pull his hair out at the roots.

"It's not like Mycroft is sticking to his diet, anyways." Sherlock scoffed.

"If it's too hard for you, then give up." Oh right. That was why he was still doing this. John kept goading him.

"This is child's play, John. Simple chemistry." At least, that was what he kept saying. Candy was surprisingly awful without sugar and he had no idea why. John's phone went off and Sherlock instantly forgot about the task at hand. He watched the blonde eagerly, but it wasn't a phone call. Instead, John's face steeled.

You're in the way, Dr. Watson.

Irene. John didn't respond, knowing Sherlock's eyes were on him. John didn't respond, knowing there was nothing he could say. John didn't respond.

He closed his phone and returned it to his pocket. He turned back to continue watching the other, but grey eyes were on him with creeping curiosity.

"You look pale. What's wrong?" Who was it?

"It's nothing." None of your business.

John brought his hand over his cheeks and the bottom of his mouth in a motion that was obviously distressed. Sherlock watched him suspiciously out the corner of his eye as he turned back to continue his 'thrilling' work.

"I thought we agreed we could talk to each other about anything." Sherlock was trying to make him feel guilty, which worked almost all of the time. This time was no different. The slightly more pitiful voice went straight to John's heart, even though he was well aware it was fake.

"It doesn't concern you." His phone rang again.

Liar.

Sherlock was quiet, pretending to mope. John couldn't concentrate on him, though.

This won't end well for you, Dr. Watson.

John rose and walked up the stairs. Sherlock was tempted to follow him, but he knew his boyfriend wouldn't make a call in the house with his curiosity piqued. The little blonde sat on the edge of his bed, thoroughly worried now. She just wouldn't give up.

What's wrong, Watson?

She was mocking him.

Worried Sherlock will pick me over you?

Know Sherlock will pick me over you?

Give it up, Dr. Watson.

He'll get bored with you like everything else.

You can't keep his attention.

You weak,

Feeble,

Pathetic,

Excuse of a man.

John stared at his phone. Perhaps it was true. No one really knew what was going on in Sherlock's head. He didn't know how long this would last, how long Sherlock would decided his opinion was worth something. It didn't matter; John would fight for it.

You can have him over my cold, dead body.

It was cliché, for she didn't deserve his time or creativity. It was dangerous, for he knew she (or any other of Sherlock's enemies for that matter) wouldn't hesitate. It was true. Sherlock would have to do a lot more than tell him to leave to make him go anywhere and she would have to do a lot more than pretty letters on a screen. He wasn't afraid of her and he certainly wasn't afraid of what she would do. There was no response and John decided to spend what little time he had with his lover.

First, he took a moment to delete a few messages on his phone until he was satisfied and promptly settled it in the drawer beside his bed. He deleted every message from Sherlock's phone and placed it side by side with his own. Then he headed back down the stairs.

"How's it coming?" He questioned, standing behind the taller man and peeking over his shoulder as he worked at the little desk. Sherlock looked up at him with all too knowing eyes. For a moment he didn't answer, instead searching the untold emotion in his lover's eyes.

"Infuriating. Tell me again why I'm making candy for my arch enemy?" He demanded. John wrapped his arms around his neck and shoulder, resting his chin in the pale neck.

"Because that 'arch enemy' of yours also happens to be your brother and you cause your brother a lot of trouble and a little gift hand made by you will surely act as some sort of good will."

"Shall I make some for Moriarty, too? Maybe he'll stop being a psychopath." Sherlock insisted in irritation.

"Why not. You can put sugar in those if you'd like." John teased back with a small chuckle.

"Poison?"

"It just wouldn't be candy for your real Arch Enemy without the poison." His hands traveled a little lower, which furthered Sherlock's suspicions, but wasn't unwelcomed. He flickered off the little burner and leaned back into the shorter male a little.

"I think you've earned a break." John murmured against his ear.

"Does this mean I get my riding crop back?" Sherlock questioned hopefully. Instead, he received the 'that's not the appropriate usage' look. Which he, frankly, though was bullshit. Breaking bust was a perfectly acceptable usage of a riding crop.

"If you can find it." Suspicions confirmed.

"Are you okay, John?"

"Of course." Sherlock waited for further instruction, some kind of 'be more careful this time' or 'not this time' or even uncertain look, but there was none. Instead, John pushed off of the back of his chair and headed for Sherlock's room, undressing casually as he went. It went straight to Sherlock's cock.

"Hurry, Sherlock." Again, he expected more. Perhaps 'I won't wait long' or 'I'll just have to do it without you' and again, there was none. He hurriedly fetched his crop from where John had 'hidden' it, unbuttoning a few buttons of his shirt as he went. He was glad he'd decided to stay home in his pants and the shirt from yesterday's outing. Honestly, and John wanted him to get dressed. John was terrible at hiding things, though he had plainly stopped trying by now. John could be a bloody terrible tease when he wanted to and reluctantly, Sherlock had to wait to take his things back. Sometimes the little blonde man was just plain ruthless.

He took long steps back to his room, only momentarily pausing outside the door to straighten up some last minute thoughts. He found John naked in his bed, his anticipation obvious between his legs. Sometimes it simply wasn't fair how easily John could arouse him.

"You've been very mean to me lately, John." Though it was suppose to make John nervous, giving Sherlock so much control, it rarely did. They both knew the kind of havoc Sherlock was capable of causing, but never was it directed towards John. At least, certainly not on purpose. There were a few incidents where Sherlock had inadvertently hurt his lover physically and mentally. Sometimes he just didn't get the big picture before it was too late.

"I see," John murmured simply. "You must really want rache." It was a strange sort of statement. One Sherlock brushed off as an attempt to rile his interest. It was an adorable attempt.

"Mmm. Lots of it." He ran the leather bit from his ankle to his knee, watching John's skin jump nervously and in eagerness. He struck the gastrocnemius muscle, leaving a little red mark on the tanned bit of skin and causing John to draw his leg up in reflex.

"Sherlock," A wordless, needy beg for him to skip the teasing this time. Sherlock ignored it. John could blame her for this, too. That woman, she'd struck him once in a fight and Sherlock had been curious about it ever since. After a quiet brutal fight of John refusing to strike Sherlock with the crop that ended with him accidently hitting him with it and a triangular shaped bruise on the tall man's face, they had both decided that it was best not to risk putting it in John's control. John only allowed him the pleasure of 'experimenting' with it (which really was more experimenting with John's reflexes than anything else) on special occasions; after particularly tough cases, holidays, or the few times Sherlock manages to actually do something sweet (buying his own groceries).

Of course, this only made the sociopath's mind flip. Worried might not have been the right word. Vexed, perhaps. Very vexed. Something bad was going on with John and it was only a matter of time before he found out what. Five ideas so far.

The leather bit traveled over his knee, along the inside of his thigh, and fondled the sensitive skin of his scrotum. John let out a shaky breath of a moan, closed his eyes and pressed his head against the pillow. The cool enough of the crop danced along the underside of his strained cock and stalled little circles around the wet head. Sherlock struck him bellow his navel, leaving another red patch to form on his skin. John sucked in a startled breath, whole body tensing instantly under the assault.

Sherlock kneeled on the edge of the bed, the springs complaining slightly under his weight. He drew the leather bit along John's ribs, following his sternum to the base of his neck and around his collar. John trembled and tilted his head back to avoid the handle and show off more of his pale neck. Sherlock followed the line of Adam's apple, and along the underside of his chin.

"Sherlock," The blonde man breathed softly. John was never so submissive. Four ideas. Sherlock dropped the crop beside the bed and instead, grabbed him about the throat with gentle fingers, pulling him off the bed ever so lightly. He captured John's lips with his own in a rough embrace, plunging his tongue into his boyfriend's mouth. The blonde groaned and his fingers dug into the sharp shoulder blade of the taller man.

Sherlock wrapped long fingers over John's ribs where they seemed to fit so perfectly and swished his thumb over the perk nipple. He arched into the touch. He brought his mouth along the pulse, leaving a series of little love marks over the semi-toned flesh. He could feel John's pulse quicken under his touch. His chest rumbled ever so gently with every groan he made. He palmed the exposed erection, making John squirm with need.

The younger man was aware of John's anxiety, even if he didn't know what it was about or why John wouldn't tell him, but he knew. He always knew when John was acting strange. Usually it wasn't like this, though. Usually he was hiding something that Sherlock would always find and John would complain about never being able to surprise him, but this was different. John was worried about something and for once, it didn't seem to be him.

John's skin jumped as the cold liquid was drizzled over his cock and anus. Slim fingers wrapped around the stiff flesh and he peeked a eye open to find Sherlock watching him, as he usually was. Sherlock was fascinated with watching him. Tiny minds and all that. John threw his head back against the pillow again as two fingers breached him, preparing him for sex they'd had many times before.

The army man writhed and moaned under the assault. Sherlock's memory was great for an abundance of things, after all, including the location of his prostate and, sure enough, how to dance around it until John begged.

Only then did he find John's lips again. They were met with far more urgency this time as the smaller male arched into the kiss and grappled at Sherlock's shoulders and back desperately. Sherlock drove into him completely with a single thrust, mangling John's cry as he struck his pleasure spot dead on. Sherlock was relentless, though that was nothing new. Several times he would pause, just to torment John into clawing his back and desperately wrap his leg around the other's thigh and waist.

"Sherlock! Yes!"

"John," Sherlock laid beside him once all was said and done. He was always cuddly after sex, though John was sure if it was up to Sherlock, they'd constantly be touching. Which John wasn't so sure he was against, but Sherlock's mind wouldn't allow it all the less. John stroked the curly locks lazily as he caught his breath.

"What's wrong, John?" He asked again. John turned to look him in the face.

"It's your turn to get milk."

"All that so I would buy milk?"

"Would you have gone if I didn't?" John questioned pointedly and received no response.

Sure enough, Sherlock reluctantly dressed and left the flat to fetch milk. John only waited a moment after he had heard the door close to dress himself as well. It wasn't a moment after he was done did he hear the unpleasant voice from the door way.

"For someone of your age, you're quiet toned, aren't you?" She purred. John stiffened his back almost immediately before returning to fix the collar of his jumper. He didn't have to face her and to be honest, he doubted it would do him any good anyways.

"I won't let you ruin Sherlock again." He stated plainly. Her heels tapped against the floor as she stepped forward and his skin jumped.

"I don't think anyone asked you, Doctor Watson." Irene whispered far more seductively for their situation.

"I don't think you understand how serious I am, Mrs. Adler," Another step and John readied himself. "This is your last warning."

"I believe that's my line." He heard her pick up the forgotten crop. John certainly couldn't forget her sadistic tendencies. Her life was built around them, after all. Finally, he spared her a look, though it wasn't anything knew. Unnecessarily revealing clothing, dolled up even for a fight, and they both knew there was going to be a fight.

"I usually don't hit women, but this should be a given, I will strike you." She only laughed. There was tension between them, but Irene struck out first. The lash was quick, quicker than John had expected it, but snatched the end of the crop up swiftly and yanked her forward. Bruised hands were the least of his problems right now. The tussle continued until she fled into the dining room and John followed. It wasn't like a fight he'd ever had before. There was a lot less punching and more side stepping. She was playing him into a corner and he knew it.

Irene plunged a needle into his shoulder before he knew she had one. He grasped at the spot quickly, holding onto a handful of his jumper.

"What was that?" He demanded, his doctor mind already going to work on how he could get it out of his system. His legs failed him seconds later. There was no way he would have time to counter it.

"Just a little something to help you sleep. Forever. Good night, John Watson." His vision blurred as she stalked away. He watched as she began to knock things over, making a scene as she was so good at. To think she thought she was good enough to confuse Sherlock Holmes was a laugh. She was counting on him to have feelings and for once, John was counting on him not to. He did his best to grip to consciousness until Sherlock returned, but within a few minutes, he had gone and so was Irene.

o-o-o-o-o-o

Doctor John Watson was found dead in his flat today. The burglars are still at large. Famed partner and blogger of Sherlock Holmes,

Sherlock watched the tv unhappily in Mycroft's home. His brother had yet to say a word so far since he'd shown up on his doorstep. Only the telly dared speak. There wasn't much to say, after all. The person behind this wasn't about to walk away free. 'The person', of course, being 'The Woman'. Perhaps she would have flown over his head for a couple days under normal circumstances, but John wasn't normal. John had been dropping hints for the last three days.

He glanced back at his brother. Mycroft heaved a breath and another drink of scotch but simply nodded in his direction. John was good. Mycroft liked John.

o-o-o-o-o-o

Even though she was suppose to be in hiding, Irene Adler was relatively easy to find. It only took him a couple days with his brother's help. With all the text she'd sent him, which John had deliberately kept from him, it was obvious she wanted to grip some form of communication between them. He knocked very plainly on her door and she, as if she'd done no wrong, answered it.

"Sherlock, oh," She frowned suddenly. A frown that Sherlock knew was faux, but then again, he was sure all her frowns were.

"I heard on the news. Come in." So he came in. He rubbed his chin and cheeks in the similar motion John always did and nodded sadly.

"I got your messages and- I didn't know where else to go." He murmured in a very broken sort of way. Irene touched her hands onto his shoulders and gently leaned her head against his arm.

"It's okay. I'll help you."

"I can't go back to my flat alone and Mycroft- Mycroft doesn't understand. I didn't know where else to go." Sherlock insisted quietly. She seemed to hesitate, as a criminal returning to the crime scene should, but quiet nodded.

"Of course dear. I understand."

o-o-o-o-o-o

Even as she entered the building, she pulled off the pitch perfection of innocence. Sherlock shrugged off is coat and scarf, hanging it on the post next to John's. It was still a bit of a mess, but Sherlock had never been fond of cleaning and John was certainly in no position to do it.

"I'll make some tea." Irene assured him. He was sure she was going to make sure she hadn't left any traces of herself. It was far too late for that. Everything pointed to her. Sherlock followed her only by a pace or two, moving a few things around the table top as he walked by. He leaned against the wall separating the kitchen and living room. He stared at the spot where John had been found and she tenderly stroked his cheek.

"I didn't want our dinner to be under these conditions." She said. Sherlock didn't respond, simply watching her set up the kettle. She stepped over a few bits of broken glass as she worked her way around the kitchen. Things were going well to plan, even down to where she got on her toes to reach the tea Sherlock had placed on top of the fridge.

He shoved her against it roughly, pinning her hands in place to prevent any more sneaky behavior. Irene didn't even flinch, but rather smirk back at him.

"I seem to be in the wrong spot for this kind of thing." She purred, running her nails against the cold outside of the fridge. Sherlock pressed the cold steel of his scalpel against her jugular and for a split second, it stopped being a game.

"I know what you did."

"I have to say, it wasn't that hard to figure it out." Irene assured him. If she'd really wanted to go to extreme measures to hide it, she would have done a better job than scatter things around.

"He was in the way, Sherlock." Since her hands were caught, she arched her back into him, tilting her head ever so slightly away from the blade. Sherlock didn't respond.

"I did you a favor. Come now, you're not a killer, Sherlock." He pulled away from her and she instantly turned herself around and face him properly. Irene grabbed his collar, bringing him in close again.

"Oh, but he is, Mrs. Adler. A serial killer, actually, but that's not going to leave this room. There is a lot about Sherlock that you don't know." Irene let go of him instantly, nearly shoving him away to find the voice in the living room. Sure enough, John glanced over the back of his chair to meet her glance. He turned back again, though. The blade was on her throat again, with a heavier hand this time.

"John? I thought-"

"That you killed him?" Sherlock smirked. "If you're going to kill someone, you should probably use original means."

"You see, after you put Sherlock to sleep during your first meeting, he became quite upset and went to work on a counter serum. Thankfully it worked. So, yes, I was dead." John nodded a little bitterly.

"For about five minutes." The taller male tacked on.

"It was strange, really. I don't remember any of it. I've been in a coma for the last few days." He had, indeed, slept.

"John has been known to be very hard to get rid of."

"I did try to warn you, Mrs. Adler. Now you've pissed off the only people, well person really. I never liked you. That would help you. You know Mycroft, the government, is just going to look away. It's surprising how often he does when it comes to Sherlock and a few words." John picked himself up, supporting his still unstable form on his case, and took a few steps towards the kitchen. Irene didn't speak. It was for the best, anyways. There was nothing she could do or say to win back Sherlock's affection. She'd never had his trust, after all.

"I know you loved him. Sherlock's easy to fall in love with once you get to know him, but you just don't know when to stop." John stopped at the edge of the living room, staring into the kitchen with no sympathy.

"So, Mrs. Adler, there are two things I want you to know."

"What's that?" She snapped sharply.

"The moment you decided to step back into Sherlock's life, you'd dug your own grave. I could have very easily let him 'choose you over me'," He mocked emotionlessly. "And you would have broken his heart and I would have shot you. This way made it slightly easier for both of us. And two, you're an awful killer. You would have never kept up with Sherlock and your little game of mystery would have worn out fast. Think of this as best for everyone."

"Everyone but you." Sherlock guaranteed her.

"You can't do this." She demanded.

"Why? Because you're too pretty? We can and we are. Good night, Irene Adler." John smiled at her pleasantly.

"Slit her throat, Sherlock."

And he did.