"I really don't see why you two have to discuss business in person." John huffed, but not from fatigue - as quick as Sherlock's pace was, he had enough practice running around the streets of London that a few blocks wouldn't tire him out.
Sherlock was walking ahead, all long legs and quick strides, looking impossibly elegant where normal people would be haggard and harried. He seemed to go even faster, so John had to double his speed to keep up, which wasn't fair at all, as John happened to be normal (which wasn't fair either, John thought).
"I mean, we've got the internet, you know - Skype and all that, and then there's the telephone, and e-mail, and loads of online chat programs - Sherlock!"
The world's only consulting detective had ducked into one of the alleys, seemingly identical to the seven others the pair had passed on their way there. The world's only consulting detective's boyfriend would have much rather they stopped in any of those seven alleys, of course, but they were where they were for a reason. One tall, leggy, usually naked, genius sexy reason, that John didn't like one bit.
Apparently Sherlock had something to discuss with Irene Adler - the Woman - that somehow couldn't be discussed from the comfort of 221B Baker Street. It was all top-secret, something to do with Mycroft, and John wasn't important enough to be told about it, apparently. He was still upset that he'd been lied to about Irene Adler not being dead, and this impromptu reunion wasn't something he was particularly excited for.
No, that was Sherlock - absolutely shaking from nerves, or excitement, or something - it wasn't obvious, of course, but John knew Sherlock's body better than he knew his own, and he could tell. Sherlock had been distant lately, taking even the simplest cases, throwing all of himself into the Work. Normally John didn't mind that at all - he was part of the Work, wasn't he?
Well, apparently not. Sherlock had taken to excuses like "But John, it's so simple really, you'd be of more use in the surgery" and "Yes I'm sure I don't need you at the scene, John, I can tell by the quality of your tea today that you need more sleep" to leave John out of the fun. And he did miss the fun; but more importantly, he missed Sherlock, which was why he found the man's effervescence at the prospect of meeting Adler incredibly grating. Yes, he was jealous; no, don't sue him, there was a reason John didn't wear sleek suits every bloody week like some people did.
They came up to the end of the alley, where there was a shady-looking door that blended in with the brick wall. Sherlock rapped on it, and it slid open. John was determined not to be impressed, no matter how much he'd liked those spy films as a kid. That was hard to keep up, though, as the pair stepped into a chrome-furnished, minimalist white, just-out-of-a-Bond-movie foyer.
They were met by Kate, who looked beautiful - much more so than her lover, John thought, shooting a glare at Sherlock. Because it seemed his lover thought otherwise; his eyes were super-glued (to stick with the Bond theme) to Irene Adler, who had stepped out of nowhere (though 'nowhere' was probably one of those sliding doors that hid in the wall paper).
"I'll be seeing you later, John," Sherlock said slowly.
"You can keep Kate company while we're gone," Irene smiled at John, a sort of toothy, 'I'm going to get Sherlock all to myself for a while, so stay out of trouble' viper smile that left him feeling sick.
Irene strutted off into a dark hallway, and Sherlock followed with a flip of his coat. Just like that, John Watson found himself alone with a woman he barely knew, someone he'd be forced to make conversation with, as there really was nothing else to do. The room was a bit too minimalist in that regard.
"So, ah," John tried to break the silence. Just as the room was bare of things to do, it had nothing interesting to pretend to be fascinated by, and he felt awkward just standing there.
Kate sighed. "I don't know what she sees in him."
"Excuse me?" John frowned; who was she to talk? "Frankly, the sadistic lady lune isn't my type either - "
"Oh? Would you like to pass the time going on about why your woman-stealing, coat-flouncing detective's been texting my mistress so much, then? Fif-"
"-ty seven times! Yes, I know, I've heard the message tone, it's indecent - "
"And at all times of the night! Yes! Finally, someone who understands!"
Kate was starting to smile now, and John couldn't help the one tugging on his own lips. Perhaps this afternoon wouldn't be a complete waste of time after all.
"And, and, and I was just thinking to myself awhile ago, you know, about how this wouldn't be a WASTE of an afternoon, you know? And now we're WASTED! Isn't that just bloody hilarious, Katie?" John let out a guffaw of a drunken laugh, which ended in a hiccup.
Kate giggled, holding up her glass of Adler's expensive Italian wine. "Hiccups, Johnny! You need to drink something!"
The ex-army man grinned. Normally, he'd be much better at holding his liquor than this, but it seemed the luxurious-looking wine (it had come out of a bloody jewel-studded bottle!) was worth its price. Well, it could've also been the fact that John had had about five glasses of the stuff.
Their conversation had started off much more seriously than their present moods indicated, but that was the beauty of alcohol. And what they'd been discussing had required lots of it; it turned out that John wasn't the only one jealous of Sherlock and Adler's new closeness.
The pair had commiserated over glasses of Shiraz Cabernet ("She's been looking forward to drinking this for days, Johnny! Muahahaha, revenge is a glass of wine!") and perhaps it was just the alcohol, but John had very much enjoyed Kate's company. She was entertainingly funny, but also clever, and not in the horribly rude way Sherlock could often be. It didn't hurt that she was beautiful, either, in the unassuming, natural way he liked in women.
"So anyway Johnny, back to the story I was telling - "
"Yes, you are a fantastic story teller! You tell the story, and I'll blog it, I'm a writer you know - "
"I was there, picture it, lying down on her gigantic bed with my legs tied down and my arms tied up, and her bed really is huge so you can imagine how much it hurt!" Kate was staring mournfully into his eyes now, looking away only to have another sip of wine.
"I'm picturing it, love," John nodded gravely. His serious mien was ruined by another hiccup, but that didn't deter the storyteller from continuing on as if it hadn't happened.
"And she's holding the crop already, you see? And I'm panting, and of course I'm naked and it's a bit cold, but I put up with her anyway, devil knows why, and then I hear this moan," Kate continued, making a moaning sound herself, to properly get the point across to her audience.
John licked his lips a bit, to get the wine off of them, of course. Not because he was beginning to feel a bit hot, no, not at all.
Kate took another sip of wine, frowning a bit when she realized she had finished her glass. John refilled it for her, and she smiled at him. "Go on," he said, and thought to himself that she was very pretty when she smiled, all plump lips and red cherries. A far cry from Sherlock's thin ones, where you weren't entirely sure you were kissing anything at all.
"So it's her bloody phone, of course, a text from Sherlock, because she doesn't have that tone for anyone else. And she gets up and just leaves me there! Puts the riding crop down and picks up her cell and walks out of the room, because she always answers Sherlock's messages in private. It's awful, like does she expect me to lean over and read them?" Kate huffed, and John thought her obvious anger and its resulting blush on her cheeks was nice.
"And she just left you there, all tied up?"
"Yes! And the sex is amazing, I'll give her that, but she's as selfish in the bedroom as she is outside it! It's always Irene this, and Irene that! Oh, I'm sorry, Johnny, I don't mean to rant at you…"
"No, no, Katie, I don't mind at all," John's eyes grew wide, and he waved his hands around a bit in protest. A bit of red wine spilled on the white sofa, but he didn't notice.
"You're a saint, Johnny. I think I love you for being such a good listener," she said warmly, and John found himself grinning at her.
"That's a nice thing to hear, you know? I think I love you just for saying that. You know, Sherlock never says that to me, he's like the, the an-ti-the-thing of affection. I think his middle name is Cold. Sherlock Cold Holmes!"
"I can absolutely relate! I think the last time someone told me they loved me was, well, oh," she said softly, blinking up at him from beneath her long lashes. They were black, even though her hair was brown - it was fascinating, drunken John thought.
"When was the last time someone told you that, Katie love?" Never let it be said that John hadn't been good at romancing; he hadn't been called 'Four Continent Watson' for nothing.
"You," Kate whispered, dropping her eyes to her glass, and swirling the wine around a bit.
Now, a sober John Watson would have pointed out, politely, that he'd said the thing not five minutes ago, so of course he was the last person to do so. He also would've sensed the thickness in the air that had nothing to do with awkwardness but a lot to do with sexual tension, and he would've made up an excuse and left the room. No matter how upset he was with Sherlock at the moment, he did love the man, and wouldn't go behind his back to get some (albeit much-needed) sex.
However, John Watson was currently drunk, and thought Kate was very beautiful, and she had just told him she loved him. And John did think he loved her, or something like that, at least in that shallow way that two people who share a bottle and a few heady looks and whispers can think themselves in love.
"Oh," John said softly. "Do you - do you want me to say it again?"
Kate looked up at him, one side of her mouth going higher than the other in a soft, lopsided smile. "Yes… I'd like that. Very much."
It all blurred together after that.
The abandoned pair's soft conversation had somehow ended up with them going up to Kate's bedroom. John couldn't remember much of how or why it had happened, but he remembered very well what had. Tangled limbs, brown hair that was long and pleasantly soft against his chest, small hands that felt incredibly good everywhere…
He could still smell the musty smell of sex, could still feel the rustling of Kate's silk sheets, still hear her soft moaning, and God if it hadn't been nice hearing someone say his name like that, all John, I love you…
And then quite suddenly John had more pressing things to think about than the fantastic sex he'd had with Kate last night, because his head was throbbing quite painfully. He opened his eyes blearily, some part of his brain noting Kate's head lying on his chest, and the darkness of the room. It took him a bit longer to notice Sherlock, standing in the doorway with his hand half-stretched towards the light switch, and the Woman just behind him.