Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. Happy birthday and many, many happy returns, Alexxphoenix42! Billions of thanks for being a saviour anytime I get a specific craving, I know I can always count on you. I apologise for not being more explicit in here, but good smut requires time and I wrote this in a rush. ^^''' Hope you enjoy this silly thing nonetheless!
…Tailor, Soldier…
After the war, John was fucked – in so many ways. He couldn't keep being a soldier. He couldn't keep being a surgeon. He could, he supposed, be a doctor still. But with his psyche in tatters, and the psychosomatic symptoms that went with it, all he could think about was patients coming in, taking a look at him, and turning on their heels, throwing a disgusted, "Physician, heal thyself" at him. How could anyone trust an unwell doctor?
Still, he needed some sort of job. The army pension would not support him for long. Not even if he caved in and went to live with Harry, and he knew how well that would end. It was the thought of Harry, actually, that gave him an idea. While he was studying medicine, he'd practiced his stitches on plenty of her clothes, when she wanted to take a few extra inches away from a skirt or something like that. He might not be a professional at the moment, but he could learn, couldn't he? How hard could being a tailor be? Sure, sometimes his hands shook…but he could undo his work and start again, he was nothing if not stubborn. On a person, that wouldn't be acceptable…but clothes didn't bleed nor complain.
He reached out to a few places, and finally found a job working under a very old, awesomely talented man. Mr. Madhup Chatterjee took a look at him and, apparently, liked him immediately. He even offered to teach John, too, so he could expand his abilities. His reason? "Well, we can't have my sign turning false advertising; it's my best move. I thought one of my kids would keep working with me, but they all found other careers, and I am not what I was anymore… "
The sign in question, which read, "Very handsome tailor," had made John laugh and attracted him to this shop, in the first place. He shrugged the compliment away, but happily started working for his new boss. If Ella had asked, he would have said it was progress. He would never have expected it to be fateful.
It all came down to buttons. Buttons that had suddenly given up and jumped around the whole street their shop was in one afternoon. The owner wasn't in (family business of some sort) and when the model – because what else could he be – came in, tightly wrapped in his Belstaff, for a second all John could do was look up at him and stare. He wasn't sure who the man was, but he had to be famous, right? He was simply too gorgeous not to have been hounded by agents ages ago. And these trousers he had on looked bespoke…
Recklessly, John asked, "What's a posh boy like you doing here? We're not exactly Savile Row."
The blush blooming on these cheekbones was damn adorable. "Emergency," the man said, opening his coat to reveal a suit underneath…and an open, eggplant-coloured shirt revealing a delicious strip of milky skin.
Once John had reined himself in enough to stop staring (no more than a handful of seconds later, he hoped), he remarked, "Oh, I see…this definitely needs some mending. I can totally do this on the fly… if you're okay with what we have, I mean. Maybe a posh boy like you needs special, posh buttons on his clothes too." He opened a few boxes and started putting various buttons on the counter.
Now, if it was anyone else, Sherlock would have already deduced them back to infancy, and preferably made them cry. But the sign was right, this was an utterly handsome tailor, and the tease sounded good natured rather than malicious. So instead he nodded toward one box at random (for all he knew, he could have picked nacre ones)…but John only stared at him expectantly. Oh, right…the shirt. The one which caused him all this trouble to begin with.
Usually the sleuth wouldn't be bashful, but under the scrutiny of this former soldier (it was rather impossible not to deduce it, or to stifle his own penchant for them) he found himself not knowing what to do. Once he shrugged it off, he covered himself back up, afraid he'd be blushing like a teenager, then told himself he was being ridiculous and loosened his hold on his coat, letting it fall open a bit. He immediately realised it could be construed as an invitation, and not an unwelcome one, if the quick look he received – and consequent tongue peeking in a quick lip licking – was any evidence. He was about to cover himself more again, but he could almost hear Mycroft sneering that all this fidgeting was likely to attract attention rather than avoid it. So, instead, he said, "What is an army doctor doing working in a tailor's shop, anyway?"
"Sorry, do I know you?" John replied, frowning.
"Of course not, but it's painfully obvious," the detective answered, proceeding to deduce him. There. Now any shadow of lust would disappear. Why did he self sabotage this way?
Instead, he received a breathy, "Amazing! So you're not just a very pretty, posh boy…you're a genius too!"
Nobody praised him. Not even Lestrade when he solved his cases for him. That was it. He would stop being good. He was stealing this man.
"And you have a varied skillset that would make you much more suited to joining my career – I am a consultant for the police when they can't solve their cases, which is always, I'm afraid. And I could do with some medical advice, and more so with someone able to hold their own in a fight… In fact, I was supposed to find a murderer until my buttons worked against me," Sherlock retorted.
"Find a murderer? Now? Did you leave the police on the pavement?" John asked, with a half-smile.
"Now, yes. And the police are not involved yet. They'd just butcher it," the consulting detective stated.
"That's it. I'll have to apologise, but I'll close early and come with you. I can't have this shirt getting all bloodied when I've just mended it," John declared, throwing the now fixed garment at him and jumping up.
What followed was one of the most confusing, thrilling, exhilarating experiences of John's life, and he'd been to war. Sherlock deduced a murderer (and damn if it wasn't sexy), John tackled and subdued him, and when the police arrived, they all gaped like idiots at seeing the both of them smile at each other and take the piss out of their prisoner for his badly constructed plans.
When the consulting detective invited him along, saying he owed John at least a meal for his help, the doctor agreed eagerly, and followed him to a cozy Italian place. "Not some French restaurant? I love it here, but I thought a posh boy like you would like something more upscale," he joked.
"You'll see why," Sherlock replied, smiling, "and really, I'm not that posh."
"Oh no, you are definitely posh. You're my posh boy, but really, there's nothing wrong with that," John said.
"Angelo – special, delivery in an hour!" the sleuth yelled, dragging John along. That was it. He was done waiting.
John laughed and followed again, not questioning him until they were inside a rather chaotic, if delightful, flat. "An hour, uh?"
"Well, Angelo is a friend, we can always call and tell him to hold it…but I'm not a patient man, John." Of course they both had to give their particulars to Lestrade, and he'd paid attention to his new companion's. "I like you very much, and I can't stand waiting a moment more. Unless I read you wrong, you'd better kiss me now. And I'll have you know I'm never wrong."
John laughed again and complied. "As you wish," he said then, and kissed him again. "My posh boy." Another. "My pushy boy." Another. "My lovely boy." They undressed each other, clothes being thrown left and right.
"My John," Sherlock exhaled between kisses. He would have loved to treasure what followed forever into his mind palace, but it turned out that being completely taken apart by the most talented lips and fingers in the universe (they had to be) and then made love to, slowly and sensually, shortcircuited his brain in the most brilliant way, better than drugs had ever managed.
He complained about it afterwards (of course he did), but John only grinned at him. "Well, I have no choice then. I'll have to stick around and refresh your memory every now and then. You did say you could use my skillset."
"Will you?" Sherlock asked, a hint of breathless insecurity in his voice.
"For my posh boy? Anything." And just because he could, John kissed him again.
P.S. Mr. Chatterjee's first name means honeybee ;D And this fic was inspired by an actual place in Cambodia I found here (remove spaces from the address, as this site won't let me post links)