A/N: Not at all related to the TV show of the same name - I've never watched it, but whenever I try to think of fic titles, I either come up with songnames or TV show titles. I'm terribly original like that.
I've tried really hard to be accurate with transport and timetables and things (aside from creative license by making THE ENTIRE NATIONAL RAIL SERVICE out of commission...shh, just pretend). Please do constructively point out any errors, and I'll be happy to edit where possible.
Thank you, and read on!
xxRegretteRienxx
-
On the plus side, it was one of the less risking-life-and-limb missions that they had to undertake, something which was sorely needed after the last month. Sherlock had ended up in hospital twice (protestations be damned), and John couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to do any everyday task which didn't cause him to aggravate a strained muscle somewhere in his body.
As for his bruised ribs, well...one day, John hoped that Sherlock would suffer the same affliction, so he could understand just how very appreciative it made one of being forced to move at all.
Even. Blinking. Hurt.
Okay, perhaps that was an exaggeration, but John had thought that having bruised ribs, he'd be cut some slack! However, it was not to be.
To the case at hand, then.
Sherlock had initially laughed at Lestrade when the man had rung up with a case in Skelton.
"I'm sure! A skeleton in Skelton!" Sherlock had jeered. "Just slightly out of your jurisdiction, isn't it, Lestrade?"
Lestrade sighed. "I know, Sherlock. Technically, yes, but I went through training with the bloke who's DCI here, and he's called me in on a favour. And I'm stumped, my team is stumped, which is why I'm calling you. Please. This case is made for you. Middle of the countryside – clues are few and far between not to mention suspects."
"Not. Interested." Sherlock insisted, fingers twitching to hang up on the DI. "What's so complicated about a skeleton?"
"One of the bones – just the one – has been replaced by a bone that we suspect is from a mummy. An Egyptian mummy. Forensics can't come up with any other explanation, and we can't make head nor tail of it. Why a mummy? How? Think about the work that the murderer would have had to put in to carry this out, Sherlock! It's a very delicate operation, to say the least!"
"Hm." Sherlock conceded, picking up John's phone from the coffee table, and searching for the rail times.
Each departure had an exclamation mark next to it, advising that the scheduled service had been cancelled until further notice, due to severe damage to the entire signal system, rendering all travel unsafe.
"We'll have to catch a taxi. The trains are off. Naturally, you'll pick up the expenses."
It was not really a question, but Lestrade answered it anyway. "No chance, mate. The higher-ups would have my head on a platter in seconds! They already don't like me involving you, as you bloody well know – not to mention the fact that you're bringing John along as well. I mean, you're both civilians. Not coppers, at any rate. By rights, you shouldn't be anywhere near this side of the blue line."
"Then I suppose I'm not solving your case for you, Inspector." Sherlock growled, and snapped the call off.
A second later, the phone rang again.
Sherlock ignored it, and after a moment, John picked it up instead.
"Tell him..." Lestrade said, an exasperated, desperate man by this point, "I can fork out for you both to get the coach out here. It's the best I can do. I can only dodgy up the paperwork so much before I end up with a boot up my arse."
"I understand." John said compassionately, looking across to Sherlock, who was slumped over a book, appearing for all the world to be utterly and entirely immersed. John knew better. Those ears missed nothing.
"Er...How long would the journey be?"
"About seven hours," Lestrade answered. "You'll have to catch the coach to Middlesbrough, which is six-ish hours, then either I or an officer will drive you here, which shouldn't be thirty minutes."
"Seven hours?" John couldn't help exclaiming in incredulousness. He remembered going on some sort of excursion when he was in Boy Scouts, all twenty-three of his troop, packed into a train carriage from London to Perth. That had taken about seven hours. Surely a coach wasn't that much slower?
"Won't the evidence be useless by then? The killer could get anywhere in seven hours!"
Sherlock snorted from his corner, not looking up from the book. "Unlikely." he muttered, but didn't elaborate.
"It's the best we can do." Lestrade apologised again. "We'll preserve the scene, and maintain all other variables as much as possible. There's a coach at eleven-thirty. If you two get on it, you'll arrive at Middlesbrough around five-forty-five a.m. It's the bes – it's all I can think of." Lestrade admitted, and John's heart went out to the DI.
"At the Gloucester place station?" John asked.
"Ah, no. Sorry, no. It's apparently shut – "
"Refurbishment." Sherlock chipped in from across the room.
"– You'll have to head down to Victoria station." John could practically hear Lestrade wincing in anticipation of Sherlock refusing to take such an inconvenient route to a crime scene, no matter how fascinating.
"I'll have a word with him and let you know, alright?" John offered.
"Cheers, mate." Lestrade sighed. "I really appreciate it."
"Don't thank me yet." John cautioned him, and hung up.
Sherlock flicked the book shut and tossed it onto the table with one hand, revealing John's mobile still clutched in the other.
"Coach at eleven-thirty p.m. at Victoria station, so we'll have to catch a cab there, then arriving at Middlesbrough at five-forty-five a.m., followed by a half-hour trip to Skelton actual. I can hardly approve of the inefficiencies associated with this entire operation." he complained churlishly, but John smiled on the inside.
Sherlock had been paying close enough attention to know what was being asked of them, and had enough interest in proceedings to look up the information about transport that he obviously hadn't been able to hear Lestrade explaining.
Curiosity let the cat out of Sherlock's bag, as it were.
Or...something. John shrugged. Metaphors were never really his forté.
"I don't know if I can go." John confessed, gingerly massaging a twinge in his knee.
"Psychosomatic." Sherlock dismissed the excuse, twiddling with booking options on the coach website.
"Wrong leg." John countered, standing his ground.
"Doesn't mean I'm wrong about the psychological nature of the pain experience. Particularly yours." Sherlock disputed, with a final, dramatic flourish as he confirmed their booking.
"Fine." John grumbled, standing up in a huff. "Fine. I'll just pack my overnight bag, shall I? Want me to sort your things for you, too?"
"Unnecessary." Sherlock waved his hand, completely missing the sarcastic element in John's words, and slumping back in his chair as though exhausted. "Mycroft insists that I keep a bag of essentials at the ready should such an instance arise. Also, since you have proven repeatedly to be invaluable to – or at the very least, involved with – my work, I have deemed it prudent to prepare an identical store of items on your behalf. I've used your own belongings; I believe that will appease your sentimental nature."
"You – what – when? Where is this bag?" John sputtered incredulously.
"My room, I should think," Sherlock mused, unconsciously moving his hands to their habitual prayer position. He was beginning to focus the entirety of his intellect on the case.
Fighting back the urge to have an entirely emotional (superfluous) reaction to the sheer incomprehensibility of Sherlock, John stomped up to the detective's room, identified the required item, and stomped back down.
Sherlock, naturally, hadn't moved. He didn't even flinch when John thumped the bag on the floor near the stairwell.
"Ah. It was there." he noted impassionately. He swung his feet off the table, and beckoned. "John. Come here. Please?" he added, and his voice was softer, not so demanding. His demeanour had entirely changed.
John found himself walking over, despite everything.
Sherlock took his hands as he got close enough, and drew him in, so that he was standing between Sherlock's widely-parted knees.
"What is it?" John said softly, gazing adoringly at Sherlock's upturned face. The detective could truly look angelic when he wasn't plotting, or deducing, or sulking.
"I was thinking..." Sherlock began, suggestively licking his lips in such a way that John found himself mimicking, transfixed. "We have so much time to spare before the coach now,"
"Yeah?" John prompted, gulping in anticipation of what Sherlock was about to propose.
"Could you make me a cup of tea? I'd rather die than have to buy one at a damned Welcome Break."
John straightened up, stepping briskly out of Sherlock's reach.
"I swear, you're going to drive me to the absolute edge one day, Sherlock!" he exploded, waving his arms to depict his aggravation.
Sherlock remained unperturbed. "Should move out, first." he suggested, coolly. "The Met always suspect flatmates and lovers at the beginning of any murder inquiry. Since you fulfil both aspects, I believe you would be doubly under suspicion. Three sugars, if you don't mind. I'll need the additional energy to be able to tolerate these horrendous conditions."
Three sugars, indeed, John pondered as he made his way into the kitchen, trying to convince himself that he wanted a tea as well, and that was why he was deigning to do this. Bugger should be grateful that I don't "accidentally" add a dash of arsenic.
"Obvious." Sherlock called from the living room. "Far too easy to trace."
"Stop making me think it might be worth it, then!" John called back, and made the teas without further incident.
-
Everything seemed much better after the tea, John realised, once again instilling his faith in the brew.
They'd probably manage to have a lovely couple of days out in the countryside, he thought optimistically. It'd probably be a much more pleasant investigation than dashing around London, to be quite honest.
They needed this change of pace, this change of scenery.
With the knowledge that he probably wouldn't get much sleep on the coach, and frankly, a little bit bored since Sherlock still hadn't said a word to him since asking for the tea (apparently a 'thank-you' was too much to expect), John decided to have a quick kip on the couch.
Trained though he was, both as a doctor and a soldier, to take sleep wherever he could find it, he'd much rather a couch to a coach seat any day. And, in general, his spine agreed with him. Of course, his bed would be even more comfortable, but...his eyes drifted shut.
-
He woke to find Sherlock sitting on the ground alongside the couch, one arm draped over John's hips, his hand tracing light patterns into John's skin. It was one of the detective's curiously endearing, affectionate gestures.
"Hello." John murmured, reaching down to place his hands under Sherlock's arms and not so much lift him, but guide him from sitting on the ground to being draped over John.
Sherlock quietly acquiesced to this placement, and was gently reciprocal to the soft kisses John offered up to him. After a few moments, their kisses became more intensified, and John shifted a little, to open his legs up, and began to work his hand between their bodies.
Sherlock's hand caught his in an instant, with a firm and unrelenting grasp.
"We have to go and find a taxi." he whispered in John's ear, before nimbly climbing off and stalking across the room to grab his coat.
John pressed his head back into the cushions with a groan.
"Of course we do."
-
As they stepped onto the street, scanning for the particular vehicle lights, John adjusted himself as much as decency allowed. Sherlock's eyes flicked down disparagingly at the movement, then back to the street without comment.
"Why didn't you just wake me up a few minutes earlier?" John complained. "Then I wouldn't be stuck like this."
Sherlock scoffed, and raised his hand to summon a cab. "You maintained a level of quite a deep sleep for the duration of that nap; it would have been imprudent of me to disturb you. Honestly, John, mind over matter. Ignore it and it'll go away. It's as simple as that."
John was fairly certain that the look he shot at Sherlock-bloody-Holmes just then was about the most succinct way of communicating 'I hate you' possible.
Not that it had any effect on the damned infuriating man.
-
The taxi ride was spent in silence, as was the process of boarding the coach and finding their seats.
However, they both broke their silences when the coach – your typical 80-seater – moved off with only seven other passengers on board.
"Huh." they uttered, in similar mild expressions of surprise.
John darted a look over to Sherlock in amusement, and made a poor effort of disguising his smile. Even Sherlock could be taken by surprise. John loved when that was proven. Not as much as the magical brilliance of his deductions, but still.
"I guess nobody wants to visit Middlesbrough." he commented.
"Interesting." Sherlock conceded, but pulled his phone out to look something up, effectively neutralising further conversation.
John sighed, looked around the coach, tried to see out the window on the far side of the vehicle, tried to see out the window next to the seat Sherlock had rapidly descended upon (bastard), but the lights reflecting and glaring everywhere made for poor viewing.
He sighed again, considered pulling out the medical journal he'd stashed in the bag as a last-minute thought, but found he had no inclination.
He reclined his seat, and tried to find a comfortable position.
"If you sigh again," Sherlock suddenly said, "I'm afraid that you will find me much aggrieved. Not to mention that you should probably seek out medical assistance for your obvious respiratory problem...doctor."
John tightened his lips.
He's being antagonistic. Ignore him.
He cleared his throat. "Thanks for your concern." he muttered, before pulling his jacket higher up over himself, and closing his eyes.
He didn't really sleep, not properly, who could on a coach? But there was definitely a difference between his doze and being properly awake.
When he did return to full consciousness, John discovered that the arm rest between them had been raised at some point, and he was snuggled against Sherlock's shoulder. If snuggled was the right word. It was actually not as uncomfortable as the bony appearance would lead one to believe. Or perhaps that was just John's perception.
He grunted and snuffled a bit, in that highly-dignified, just-woken way, and tried to look at his watch in the dark.
"Twelve-thirty." Sherlock provided, startling John a little, since he'd thought the other man was asleep. Well, his mobile wasn't currently being used, and that was usually a fail-safe indicator of consciousness.
"Bloody hell." John muttered, and wriggled in the seat. He was still 'interested', so to speak. It wasn't some ridiculous, raging erection, because if that had been sustained over this many hours, bugger it, he'd be calling himself an ambulance!
No, it was simply a level of discomfort, and John knew exactly what the cure was.
"Sherlock." he whispered, placing a kiss on the other man's collarbone, feeling how his throat worked as he swallowed. "I want to fuck you." he confessed, revelling in the filthy phrasing he only infrequently used in reference to sex.
"I know." Sherlock murmured back. "No."
"Ngh – what?" John blurted at the unexpected response.
"We are inhibited by the impracticality of our surrounds, John." Sherlock pointed out. "There are, in essence, three options – simply wait until we arrive at Skelton,"
John groaned. Not a chance he could wait that long.
"I agree," Sherlock nodded. "I will probably be far too distracted by the case to spare you much attention, and the situation will be greatly dissatisfying to all. Secondly, there is a small toilet cubicle aboard this vehicle, you could avail yourself of the amenities."
"I don't want to go in there to toss myself off!" John hissed furiously. "Besides, for someone who has proven time and again to have little, if any, regard for propriety about sex in public places, you're being pretty bloody repressed right now. I thought you'd be overjoyed!"
"Don't worry, I am. In a way." Sherlock replied flatly. "But these circumstances are causing me great concern. If we are caught in flagrante here, we may very well be ejected from the vehicle, thereby delaying out arrival at Skelton even further. Discretion is required. Now," he continued, gesturing to the seatback in front of them. "Consider our visibility. If I am on your lap, my head will obviously surpass the level of these seats, however, if you are on my lap, this situation will be avoided. Therefore, to avoid detection, logistics dictate that I can fuck you, but not you me."
Logistics! That wasn't what John was after. It wasn't nearly the same thing. His cock ached for Sherlock's arse, he craved the feel of Sherlock's body moving beneath his, and the fascinating, unique faces John could wrangle from him, not to mention the indefinable exclamation that accompanied his orgasm.
All of this aside, however, there seemed to be something missing from Sherlock's supposedly flawless scenarios, but John couldn't quite put his finger on it right now.
"Good?" Sherlock prompted, toying lightly with the waistband of John's trousers.
"Okay." John said, slightly begrudgingly, and a smile slid over Sherlock's features. He drew the curtain over the window, as John deftly discarded his belt, trousers, and pants.
"I really hope no-one decides to go to the loo." he giggled in an excited whisper as he straddled Sherlock and leant in for a kiss.
"Unlikely," Sherlock murmured. "The man at the front appears to be a labourer of some description – I haven't had an opportunity to see his hands – and therefore, he's most likely to – "
"Shut. Up." John instructed, not unkindly; and helped Sherlock to work his trousers off. "Do you have lube nearby?" he whispered urgently, and Sherlock waved a tube in front of his face, one eyebrow raised. "Good. Good." John flashed a quick smile, and realised that he was already getting hard simply from the anticipation. Perhaps this would be more than okay, after all.
He shuffled Sherlock's trousers down around his ankles, then took in the other man's quick, shallow breaths and the now-apparent tent in his pants.
"Jesus, Sherlock." John whispered, his mouth suddenly dry, "Don't tell me you were hard this whole time." His head swam to think of such an extended state of need.
"No. Well – no." Sherlock protested, slightly flustered by the situation, and the fact that he honestly couldn't recall details of his bodily functions, particularly this one. "I don't think so. It must have subsided at some point."
"How can you just block this stuff out?" John asked, simultaneously amazed and horrified by Sherlock's mental powers.
"Practice." Sherlock shrugged, and proceeded to completely derail John's train of thought.
He was inside John so quickly, it elicited a strangled gasp from the doctor – a response not exactly of pain.
"Shh, shh," Sherlock soothed him needlessly, holding still for just a moment until John unfurled his body.
"Yes." John breathed finally, and Sherlock let out a small moan of relief as he began pushing up into John. His hands on John's hips soon reminded the other man that he, too was involved here, and couldn't exactly leave all the work to Sherlock.
John huffed as he lifted and descended, hoping against hope that he wouldn't weaken and vocalise, drawing attention to their activities. Luckily, though, the position was much more accommodating than he'd expected – very similar to that time they'd just been too excited, too impatient, and had tangled over each other on the couch.
"Oh." John moaned, his eyes widening as he realised that his focus had slipped from the here and now.
Sherlock grunted with his next thrust, and wrapped his hand around John's cock delicately, commencing his familiar strokes and twists.
Fuck. John batted the other man's hand away. It just wasn't working for him.
"Are you – " Sherlock began, hesitantly.
John shook his head, not meeting Sherlock's eyes, and distracted him, tilted his hips, jolted them, causing Sherlock to arch in response.
"Fu – "John cut him off, quieting him with a thorough snog.
That was it, John realised, remembering the couch again. Sherlock hadn't thought this through.
"Sherlock," he whispered, all urgency and need. "Let me fuck you."
"Yes." Sherlock sighed, his eyes rolled back up in his head as he thrust upwards, then stuttered his movement. "No. John, I explained this to you. Your ridiculous biological urges. They can't be that specific. Can't you just enjoy this?" he rocked his hips as though to remind John exactly the state they were in.
"I can't, right now. I need to be in you. But don't worry, it's not going to increase our risk of being spotted. Is it okay? Can I?"
Sherlock looked at him dubiously, but the underlying streak in him that begged for John to prove his genius, to display that spark that set him apart from the mainstream drudgeries, showed its face.
He'd barely uttered the challenge, "Try it." when John pounced, absolutely kissing the life out of him.
"Mmph." was forced between his slips, as John carefully excised himself from his cock. John responded with a softer, but equally as absorbing kiss, simultaneously applying plenty of lube to his own fingers.
"Shh, shh, shh," John reminded him, and Sherlock nodded quickly, wanting to reach for his cock and pull himself off, but thwarted by John's next actions, which guided Sherlock's feet up to the tops of the seats in front of them, and pushed Sherlock's knees back, towards his shoulders. A normal person sitting like this for an extended period of time would have found it uncomfortable, but John was only too aware of the postures Sherlock regularly subjected his spine to: this position, by comparison, was practically ergonomic.
John was crouched between Sherlock's legs, looking delighted at this change in position, and the possibility that was now made available to him with Sherlock's very exposed arse. He shot Sherlock a pleased, cheeky grin and the scene was suddenly very very familiar. He wasn't, obviously, able to splay his legs quite as widely here, but it was certainly enough.
"You're brilliant." Sherlock grinned hugely at John, who leaned in close, tracing one slick finger around Sherlock's quivering entrance.
"Actually, you are," John argued, and a second later, Sherlock found that although there was much more proof that, in fact, Dr. Watson was the brilliant-er one, he was damned if he could remember how to form words.
This was it, John affirmed to himself, watching Sherlock unravel, literally at his hands. His cock perked up with the changed situation, and now the couple of swift strokes he deployed there added to his desire, rather than feeling somehow forced.
"Oh god," Sherlock whined, trying to push himself further onto John's fingers.
John pressed Sherlock's hip back against the seat, stilling him somewhat. He leaned in close, nibbled gently on Sherlock's earlobe.
"So. What do you want me to do, now?" he whispered.
"Oh, you are evil." Sherlock panted, desperately. "Just fuck me. Fuck me now, John. Please."
John smiled. "I believe I've been suggesting that all along," he pointed out. But there was no argument now, and definitely no conflict of interest.
-
"Jesus." Lestrade uttered, upon seeing Sherlock's paler-than-usual, and notably drawn and haggard features. "You need a bloody holiday."
Sherlock graced him with a look of disdain, the effect of which was only slightly ruined by the overwhelming yawn he succumbed to a moment later.
John walked around from the other side of the bus with their bag in one hand, grumbling about consulting detectives who didn't see fit to wake up their flatmates once they'd arrived at their destination. They had dozed off after their exertions, but it really hadn't been a beneficial rest.
"Jesus fucking Christ!" Lestrade cried, at John's utterly wrecked appearance. Apart from looking like a month of sleep wouldn't go astray, John's hair was mussed – you wouldn't even think it was possible with that militaristic cut – one trouser leg was tucked into his boot, and his shirt was buttoned as though by a three-year-old, who didn't completely understand the concept.
"What the hell do you put him through, Sherlock?"
"Me?" Sherlock was stunned at the lack of rationale in the DI's exclamation, but John was moved to laughter.
"I'm fine, Lestrade." he promised, climbing into the car. "I'll have a rest today while Sherlock has a look at the crime scene and does his deducing thing."
A "Hm." came from Sherlock.
"What?" John inquired.
"Nothing." Sherlock evaded.
"What?" John pressed.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Well, thanks to the ever-useless Scotland Yard, who wouldn't know a clue if it came delivered to their door in a nice, neat package with labels all over it, declaring 'I am a clue!' in block letters – "
"Oi!" Lestrade interrupted.
"You won't be getting any rest today, after all." Sherlock concluded, darting a look at John which could almost be interpreted as apologetic.
"What – " John yawned, and shook his head to clear it. "What do you mean?"
"I've already solved the case." Sherlock stated, as though it were the most boring fact on the planet.
"Bollocks!" Lestrade exclaimed. "Absolute bollocks! You haven't even seen – how can you possibly have – ?"
"Because I happen to have a functional brain, Inspector." Sherlock pointed out critically. "The answer is simple, and so very disgracefully obvious. Egyptian mummies were prepared by binding the body in linen, and so was this bone that you found placed in amongst the rest of the current victim's skeleton. But it's the wrong linen, which you would have noticed if you'd cared to look. Fortunately, I did look at the pictures you emailed. It's clearly linen which has been prepared on a far more contemporary loom than was available in the time of the Pharoahs. Besides which, the materials contained in the fabric could never have been sourced in Egypt. Who on Earth have you got on Forensics? Don't bother answering," he waved his hand in the direction of Lestrade's hanging-open mouth, "The point is. Irish linen. Get Mrs Gould in for questioning."
"But...Gould's not an Irish name." Lestrade stammered, vowing to subject Forensics to a serious smarten-the-hell-up-and-stop-wasting-all-of-our-time speech in the near future.
Sherlock sighed. He clenched his fists. He focused his eyes on a spot on the roof of the car, and appeared to be saying something under his breath.
"Calming technique," John explained, since Lestrade was looking even more lost than usual in the wake of another Sherlockian tidal wave. "It's for the good of mankind. Um," he said, directing his next words to Sherlock. "She's married, so while her name isn't Irish anymore – and possibly her accent has diluted, if she's lived here a while – she's still Irish by birth...?"
"Yes!" Sherlock shouted, making Lestrade jump.
"Driving, Sherlock!" he chastised, with just a touch more venom than he actually felt.
Sherlock, par for the course, ignored him. "We also know that she's been employed with various linen factories throughout her life, and although statistically she's unlikely to be the murderer of the previous victim herself, I have no doubts that she will lead us to the murderer, who in turn, if he isn't responsible for the current victim, will lead us to whoever is!"
He sat back with a broad grin, waiting for the exclamations of amazement, and lavishments of praise which had become the usual reaction to his deductions of late.
"So..." John began, lips pursed as he mulled it over. "You haven't actually solved the case."
Sherlock sputtered. "Well – But – I've come closer to solving it than Lestrade and his team have - and I haven't even reached the scene yet!" he protested, defending his intelligence.
"I guess." John shrugged, turning to look out the window.
"Lestrade!" Sherlock pleaded for the DI to back him up.
"Still driving, Sherlock." Lestrade answered flatly, refusing to meet the detective's eyes in the rear-view mirror.
"I can't believe – !" Sherlock exclaimed, utterly put out by the lack of recognition for his skills, his prowess, his absolute intellectual mastery.
Then he caught sight of John's face, reflected vaguely, but enough, in the window.
"I am not even going to begin to tell you how frustrating you both are!" Sherlock complained, but his tone had altered.
John and Lestrade spent the rest of the drive to Skelton laughing at Sherlock's indignant expression.
-END-