"For you, I think," said John crossly, dumping an armful of letters and a few parcels in front of Sherlock on their dining room table.
Sherlock looked at the pile over his cup of tea. "Oh, yes. Holidays, it always brings them out."
"Yes, well, I wish that it wouldn't; there's more every time and this one is the worst. Not just, 'Thank you, Mr. Holmes,' 'We admire you so much, Mr. Holmes,' but 'You're so handsome, Mr. Holmes!' 'Please come to tea, Mr. Holmes.'" John said this last in a simpering tone with a little dip of his knees.
"Sit down, John, have your breakfast and stop being so absurd." Sherlock dug about in the pile of letters and selected one, "Look." He picked up the scimitar-shaped paper knife and slit open the pale pink envelope to pull out and read the pink card with its decorations of lace and flowers. "From Adelaide Swallow, Addie to her friends, of which I apparently am one, given the way she signed her card. She's sixty if she's a day. Look at her Copperplate script, as it was taught fifty years ago and a shakiness to it that indicates age. And," he sniffed it and wrinkled his nose, "ugh, stale lilac scent. 'Dear Mr. Holmes, I saw your picture in The Times. You are so attractive, I just want to...'" His eyes went wide, "I didn't know they taught ladies those terms." He tossed the card further down the table.
"Alright, this one then." He selected a white envelope and opened it, revealing a handmade card, badly cut out hearts glued on clumsily. "Dear Mr. Holmes, we found our rabbit by thinking like you. Thank you for being so clever, Timothy and Nellie Dawson. Although..." he held the card up to the light, "their Nanny put them up to it. French girl, or rather, Belgian. Nineteen or twenty."
John pursed his lips to the side, "Good thing she didn't write what she'd like to do to you. Probably have written it in French." He picked up the newspaper and snapped it open, hiding behind it, "You'd probably have enjoyed it. Remind you of the war."
Sherlock winced minutely, "John, they're all rubbish. You know that."
John slammed the newspaper down. He grabbed a large red card and waved it in the air, "What about this one? No stale lilac here. Even I recognize Chanel No. 5."
Sherlock looked surprised. "Who do you know who wears Chanel? Caroline just wears a little rose water."
"Lady Margaret has more expensive tastes, but that doesn't matter. It's women, lovelorn women, writing to you!"
"John," Sherlock purred, "you know I prefer my lovers to be a little more...rugged.. Would you prefer it be lovelorn men?" He smiled coyly, but John wasn't looking.
"No," John agreed, "at least men aren't writing you."
"Well..." Sherlock moved a few letters aside with the tip of the knife, "there is this one." He tossed it over to John. "Twenty-four year old man from Croydon. Lives with his mother."
John snatched up the envelope, ripped it open and scanned it quickly. "It's signed Alice!"
"And when you met me I was being called Robbie. He can hardly use his proper name. He's probably named Albert. Or Alfred."
John was still staring at the card, "This is worse, Sherlock. Men!" He turned his head angrily and then looked back. "Young, impressionable men who think they can... "
"Oh-oh." Sherlock laughed teasingly, "You're still angry about the White Russian Count. Everything I
did with the Count was for the case. Which I solved! To the benefit of the British Empire, I might add."
John picked up the paper again and hid his face, then slammed it down once more. "He had his hand on your knee! And that's only what I saw in public! God only knows what you had to let him do in private. For the British Empire!"
"John! I didn't let him kiss me. I was hardly going to 'lie back and think of England'! Sherlock realized that John really was upset. He scanned the parcels and selected one. The string proved too difficult for the paper knife so he used the butter knife instead.
"Mrs. Hudson will be furious if she catches you dulling the silver," snapped John just to be surly. "What is it? Lipstick-stained handkerchiefs?"
"Chocolates," Sherlock replied, as he popped one in his mouth, having managed to get the box open.
"You should be careful. They might be poisoned. You do have enemies."
"Speaking of which, you might want to put that cream-colored envelope aside so I can study it later."
John looked at the offending letter in horror and pushed it away using the handle of the sugar tongs.
"And, speaking of Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock continued in a low voice, "you know that today is her market day?"
"Of course."
"And you know that she generally visits her sister before she returns home to prepare our tea."
"Yes, what has this got to do with anything?"
"It means that I have a little over eight hours to convince you that the declarations of love and, er, other things from my admirers is never going to change how I feel about you. How much I love you."
With that, he stood and dropped his moleskin dressing gown from his shoulders. As he started towards the door he began to undo the top button of his pajamas.
"Coming, John?" he called as he waltzed out of the room. "Bring the chocolates!"
John gazed at the table for as long as he could stand it, then leapt up and ran up the stairs, stumbling over Sherlock's discarded pajama top on the fifth stair.
To his surprise, Sherlock was not waiting on the bed, but instead lunged at him from behind the bedroom door with a sultry "Roaaarr."
John let out a breathy sigh, "Sherlock..."
Sherlock kissed the back of John's neck, swiping his tongue inside the collar of John's pajamas. "John," he murmured tenderly, "you know that nothing happened between Mish- Count Olomov and me. I would never have let it get that far. I'd never, never betray you, no matter what it cost me. Or England. You must know that?" There was something a little needy and pleading in his voice that broke John's heart.
He started to turn, "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have..."
"Shhh." Sherlock dropped to his knees, keeping John from turning around. He reached around John's waist with his long arms, untied the drawstring of John's pajamas and tugged them down with the boxers. "John..." he kissed the curve of John's arse, "...my lips..." the crease at the top of John's thigh, "...haven't touched..." the back of John's knee, "...anyone's skin...," he moved to John's front and started to work his way back up starting with John's knees, "...but yours...," the front of John's thighs, "...for ten years...," he paused gazing at John's groin, "except maybe the cheeks of little old ladies."
John started to say something but then Sherlock's mouth was around his cock. "Oh, god, Sherlock. You...you don't have to."
Sherlock pulled back, keeping John's cock on his tongue, mouth open for a moment to let John see it, then pulled away completely, "I know, but I want to." He engulfed John's cock again. His hands slid back around John's body to cup John's arse and massage it, spreading John's cheeks gently as he rubbed.
"God," John repeated, "Sherlock. Let's at least get into bed."
"Unh-unh," Sherlock moaned without removing his mouth.
"Please, oh God, Sherlock. When you do that..."
A chuckle that vibrated along his shaft into his balls.
"Please," pleading now. "Please let me sit down."
Sherlock pulled his mouth off with a wet pop that left a thread of spittle from the tip of John's cock to his lips, which he broke with his tongue. "Alright, strip and lie down...on your stomach.
John gave a shaky sigh, but hurried to follow the orders.
There were rustling sounds as Sherlock moved around the bed and removed his own pajama bottoms. Then he was draping himself over John's back, oil-slick fingers sliding down John's cleft to penetrate him. "I love you. I love you, John. No one but you. You mustn't be jealous ever."
"Sherlock," John groaned, "I'm sorry. I love you, too. Please..."
"Please, what?"
"Please. Please. I want you. I want you inside me."
"Shh," Sherlock whispered again. "Yes, soon. Do you believe me? Do you believe I love you?"
"Yes, oh, yes."
There was a tiny pause, "Do you love me?"
"Sherlock, yes. Yes, more than anything. More than life itself."
Sherlock fumbled between them to ease himself inside John who let out a long, throaty moan of pleasure. Sherlock nipped at John's back and kissed the scar on John's shoulder, a dark memento of the war, and moved his hips in long, slow thrusts until John was shivering. "Move faster, Sherlock, please. Move!"
But Sherlock kept up his slow rhythm until they were both soaked in sweat and John was writhing desperately beneath Sherlock's hips. "Please Sherlock, please. I need you to touch me."
"I know," Sherlock purred, his tongue tracing the whorl of John's ear. "I'm going to finish John, and then I'm going to turn you over and give you an orgasm to remember, so that you never doubt my love again."
"Yes, please."
Sherlock's hips finally moved faster, thrusting harder into John, pushing him against the mattress, his poor neglected cock rubbing against the sheets. He gave a last hard thrust with a loud gasp and stilled, his forehead pressed against the back of John's head. "I love you."
They just lay together for a while until Sherlock had stopped trembling. He placed one last kiss at the top of John's spine and fell to the side.
John rolled over with a moan as his sensitive skin brushed against the sheets. But he didn't have long to enjoy his rest as Sherlock slid down John's body to take his cock back into his mouth. And oh, how he tortured John with more long, slow strokes, resisting the way John urged him to go faster by pressing on his head and thrusting up into his mouth. At last Sherlock started to match John's rhythm, pushing his mouth down as John thrust up. John wouldn't have thought it possible, but he could feel himself grow even harder and at last he was over the edge, spilling into Sherlock's mouth with a bellow that could probably have been heard in the street.
Sherlock reflected that the neighbors had probably heard worse sounds from 221 Baker Street.
As John shuddered through aftershocks, Sherlock exclaimed, "You didn't bring the chocolates!"
After John had been dispatched for a towel and the chocolates and returned with both and glasses of water, they lay quietly together, John curled around Sherlock, the box of chocolates on Sherlock's stomach.
Sherlock blew a smoke ring up to the ceiling as John reached for another chocolate. "You know, John, no one would know who I was if you hadn't started to write up our cases for the newspapers."
"I wanted people to know how brilliant you are. I never thought it would turn you into some sort of American film idol."
Sherlock chuckled. "I must say that a bit of fame has opened several doors that were previously closed to me."
"Higher paying clients."
"Yes. And a bit of notoriety has led to more interesting challenges."
"I worry about that. How dangerous is that envelope?"
"Not very. Just a little poison."
John sat up, "What?"
"Mind the chocolates! Don't worry. I think the sender meant it as a puzzle, not as a threat."
John lay back down. "Still. Did you ever think that this would be our lives, ten years on? I've become your biographer, when originally you were supposed to be my secretary."
"Do you mind it?"
"No, not at all. I knew you were extraordinary," John murmured kissing Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm glad the world recognizes it now. And that I have been able to help bring that about." He paused, "Except when it takes you away from me."
There was a long silence as Sherlock considered what to say.
"I never want to be away from you, you know that. You are everything to me. I owe you everything. All those long, wretched years of the war, all I thought of was you, getting home to you. It's what kept me going. Certainly not thoughts of king and country. I didn't do it for honor, or for patriotic sentiment. I did it to bring you home sooner. If it would make you happy, I would move to the countryside with you and never see or hear another human being again."
"I'm an idiot, aren't I? To be jealous after all we've been through." John laughed.
"Yes, but most people are."
"Oi, watch yourself!"
Sherlock stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray next to the bed and was quiet so long that John thought that he might have gone to sleep. But then he started to sing in his clear but light baritone, his fingers sliding gently through John's hair.
"I'll get by
As long as I
Have you,
Though there be rain
And darkness too.
I'll not complain
I'll see it through.
Though I may
Be far away
It's true,
Say, what care I
Dear, I'll get by
As long as I
Have you."
I'm jumping the gun on the song which came out in 1928, not 1924, but I couldn't find one I liked from before '24. Although I guess the story could just as easily be set in 1928. It's another of my favorite songs. I'll Get By (As Long As I Have You)-words by Roy Turk, music by Fred E. Ahlert
.com/watch?v=t3nqMAs4eDc
White Russians were the name given to émigrés fleeing the Communist revolution in 1917. Many were Russian aristocrats fleeing persecution and resenting their loss of power.
Moleskin is a brushed fabric, similar to, but heavier and warmer than flannel.