Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, and they'd probably manage to emancipate themselves even if I did.
Author's Note: My first attempt at BBC Sherlock fanfic. Probably not my last. Be gentle – I'm rusty and on the wrong side of the pond. Takes place after The Great Hiatus and shamelessly tells you nothing about the gap. A bit of fluff, really.
Summary: Entering 221B Baker Street is often like stepping into another reality. Or, at the very least, an alternate dimension.
Rating: PG-13
Started/Completed: October 14th, 2012 / January 19th, 2013
The Uneventful Afternoon
John Watson always takes a moment to mentally prepare himself as he twists the key into the lock of 221B Baker Street. He's never quite sure what Sherlock will have gotten up to in his absence, and it's better to be prepared if one is going to find, say, a severed head in the icebox. Still, no matter his moment of zen, John finds that he never really is prepared.
It takes every ounce of the considerable calm he possesses to not drop the shopping when he walks in and finds Sherlock sprawled out on the couch, yelling at the telly, with one (supposedly deceased) Irene Adler.
John stands stock still in the doorway and blinks once, to see if his eyes are deceiving him. All this serves to do is give him time to realize that they're both sprawled out in Sherlock's dressing gowns, and only Sherlock has the decency to be wearing anything underneath.
"Oh, for heaven's sake! He's clearly not the father. Look at the ears!"
Irene pats his cheek absently, perhaps somewhat condescending. "She doesn't know who the father is. It certainly isn't any of the five... no, six... men she's brought along with her today."
Sherlock scowls, expression murderous. "Obvious."
Both occupants of the flat keep their attention focused on the telly. John clears his throat, "Umm... hello."
"John." Sherlock acknowledges him without so much as a glance.
But Irene looks up and fixes John with a conspiratorial expression, "Don't mind him. He's just grumpy that he's losing."
"I do not get grumpy." Comes the decidedly grumpy reply from her left.
John can't suppress the disbelieving snort that escapes. This whole situation is just too much. Irene Adler, back from the dead and lounging in his flat. Sure. Why not? After all, he dealt with a far worse shock when Sherlock himself returned to Baker Street after his supposed death.
Sherlock spares him a withering look, before his gaze returns to Irene. It's clear that they have one another's undivided attention.
John waits a moment, but their eyes remain locked, whatever conversation they're having completely nonverbal. It reminds him of every other time he has seen the two of them in the same room together. There is the same sharp tension between them, obliterating the calm that existed when he first walked in. Whatever the story behind this is, it'll keep. John shakes himself out of his befuddled reverie and heads towards the kitchen decisively – he has shopping to put away.
"I thought he'd never leave." Irene murmurs, biting her lip and moving to straddle Sherlock.
Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise, otherwise ignoring the fact that their positions have changed so significantly. He appears to be under the mistaken impression that if he remains still enough, she will simply give up. As far as battle tactics go, becoming a statue to avoid seduction is certainly a unique one.
Seeing that he isn't going to rise to the bait, metaphorically or literally, Irene tuts, "Ooh, someone is grumpy." She leans closer, ghosting her breath against his ear, "Or did you just want to see what I might do to cheer you up?"
His eyes dart towards hers and away again. "John's in the kitchen."
"Yes, and I'm choosing to ignore the fact that you clearly haven't mentioned me in favor of watching you both squirm."
Now his focus is back on her, trying to gauge how serious she is. After a moment, his lips quirk up in a slight smirk. "Misbehaving, Miss Adler?" But he doesn't pull away.
"Mister Holmes!" She feigns shock for a moment, just to see his response. His patented obvious look is enough to draw out her most seductive smile. "Always."
She waits for his gaze to shift from deducing to smoldering before she tangles her hands in his hair and tugs him up to meet her mouth. She loves the rush of knowing she can inspire that look. Wonders if he realizes just how intense it really is.
Sherlock's arms come up to tighten around Irene's waist, pulling her closer. Judging by the rustle of groceries in the kitchen, he has calculated that they have seven-and-a-half more minutes before John's curiosity draws him back to the lounge. As long as they don't make too much of a commotion.
They tear themselves apart to breathe, and Sherlock wastes no time running his hands up Irene's back to slip his dressing gown off her shoulders, as his lips trail down one side of her neck, following the revealed skin.
Irene gasps, always helpless to suppress her appreciation in the face of those hands and lips gliding purposefully along her body. Sherlock has put all his considerable powers of observation into learning what she likes. She doesn't think she's ever been with anyone that even comes close to matching the intensity of the way he touches her. Every movement is calculated and full of the same strange combination of self-assurance and grace that follows everything Sherlock does.
Not willing to lose her head so easily, Irene pulls back ever so slightly, wishing one of their riding crops were easily on hand. "Misbehaving, are we? How naughty." She tugs sharply on his hair, where her hands are still tangled, and is rewarded with a soft hiss of appreciation.
Sherlock's eyes narrow and Irene finds herself sprawled on her back on the couch, Sherlock still pressed against her, propped up on his elbows and not even trying to look anything but smug.
Their eyes lock. It is always a contest between them, still, no matter what. Irene slides her hands down the front of Sherlock's dressing gown and ridiculous striped pajamas.
The sound of the refrigerator door slamming shut reluctantly draws their attention from one another. The noises of the rest of the flat slowly filter back in, from the shouts of the audience on Jerry Springer to the soft padding footsteps in the kitchen.
When John walks back in approximately thirty seconds later, Sherlock and Irene are sprawled out in positions identical to when he left them.
John surveys them for a moment. He may not have anywhere near their powers of deduction but, contrary to Sherlock's frequent complaints, he is not an idiot. Sherlock sits as still and cold as a statue, betraying nothing. If only his hair didn't suddenly look like it had gone a round or six with a weed whacker, John might just be inclined to believe him. He's certainly putting on a better show than Irene, whose calm demeanor does little to hide the fact that she has tugged the dressing gown a bit too firmly closed and still can't manage to completely hide the flush to her skin.
Shaking his head, John grabs the clicker and turns off the telly, forcing their attention to him as he settles in Sherlock's favorite chair and offers amiably, "So. Not dead then, Irene?"
"Obvious." Sherlock sits forward and regards his friend. "Not in America, either. Really, John. Almost eight minutes mulling over questions, and you go with that?"
John has the grace to look sheepish for a moment. He hasn't forgotten the lie Mycroft provided about Irene being in America, but then he hasn't forgotten any part of that conversation in Speedy's. There's no point insulting Sherlock's intelligence by asking about America now. "Yes, well. Not as though you've never lied to me, now is it? I was worried at how you'd take her death. Clearly, I needn't have done."
"Now, boys."
Irene Adler looks far too amused for anything good to come of it. For once, Sherlock seems to agree with John's assessment. They share a quick look and, just like that, the tension is gone. John shakes his head and exhales a shaky laugh. "All on you, mate." After all, he has put up with far, far worse from Sherlock. John wouldn't have got very far if he hadn't learned to let things go a long time ago.
Sherlock makes a stifled noise in the back of his throat, quickly cut off when Irene settles her gaze on him. Irene laughs, delighted, "Excellent idea, Doctor Watson."
There's a long moment where Irene and Sherlock appear to be lost in their own private conversation. When it appears safe enough to assume that Irene is not going to follow-through on that word-play, John heaves out a sigh, picks up the clicker, and turns the telly back on. "Right, then. What are we watching?"
Sherlock gives a dismissive little wave. Irene deadpans with an arched eyebrow, "Jerry Springer."
John represses a snort. That certainly explains part of the scene he had walked in on earlier. "No cases then?"
Sherlock scowls, instantly irate. "Do you really think I would be letting my brain rot watching this utter rubbish if I had a case on?"
Used to Sherlock's tirades about his brain rotting, John simply shrugs it off. Apparently most things fall into the same rot-worthy category as Jerry Springer, including doing the shopping, picking up any reasonable hobbies, and just about anything that isn't an active case. He is just opening his mouth to nettle Sherlock to that effect when Irene smoothly cuts in. "I have plenty of suggestions to keep that big brain of yours occupied."
There is very little doubt that that is an innuendo (or several, knowing Irene). John half expects it to go over Sherlock's head, but Sherlock looks vaguely scandalized, hissing out, "Not in front of John."
Right. Well. John keeps his eyes resolutely on the telly, flicking through channels and ignoring the way Irene shifts on the couch. Ignoring it. "Yes. Please. Not in front of John."
"Why not? The good doctor is welcome to join us." John tries not to choke on air at the teasing tone and implication heavy in Irene's voice.
Sherlock simply shoots her a calculated glare, and Irene sprawls dramatically down on the couch, conveniently draping herself across Sherlock's lap with a wink, "All right. If you insist."
At least Sherlock's tantrum seems to have been effectively quelled. John doesn't know whether to be grateful or appalled, as Sherlock subsides down into the couch, face impassive. He drapes one arm along the back and the other idly brushes through Irene's hair, deftly smoothing out tangles.
John can't help but be agog all over again at the level of comfort implied between the two. Even the teasing and glares seem more like some sort of foreplay than competition. And oh, does he wish he could scrub that thought right out of his brain, right this instant.
Even more resolute than before, John turns his attention back to the telly, picking some period medical drama program at random. At least it isn't Jerry Springer. Getting Sherlock into crap telly really had been one of his worse ideas, even if it had stopped him from taking down the living room wall in boredom. There were some things Mrs. Hudson really wouldn't abide.
There is one blissful moment of silence that does not seem immediately charged or awkward before Sherlock spits out, "That's wrong. There would have been an X-ray, rendering this entire exercise useless."
John darts his eyes towards the couch and quickly back again when he accidentally catches Irene's - Sherlock is glaring at the telly. "Hush. I'm the medical doctor. If I can put up with them missing some details, you can as well."
"But it's completely implausible! Look at the facts! And of course you wouldn't mind, John, you -"
John cuts him off firmly, well versed in detecting when Sherlock is about to insult his intelligence or observational powers. "Sherlock."
Sherlock huffs, but closes his mouth and turns his eyes back to the telly without another word. This probably has more to do with the way Irene sits up to whisper in his ear, maneuvering herself so that she is sprawled almost entirely across Sherlock's lap, than anything John might have said. Though, perhaps Sherlock is realizing he's probably pushed John about as far as he is willing to go today. Every once in a great while, Sherlock shows a modicum of awareness to that effect.
Still. John decides to cut his losses and focus on the television program, even if he now has to purposefully ignore the suddenly blinding oversight of that missing X-ray. He is purposefully ignoring the way Irene wraps her arms around Sherlock's neck and rests her head against his shoulder, and he is definitely ignoring the fact that Sherlock brings one arm up to support her without even the slightest hesitation. If he can ignore all that, he can ignore any medical inaccuracies on the telly. John forces himself with military discipline to focus solely on the screen in front of him.
Not that it seems to matter. When he glances over during an advert, Sherlock and Irene are in their own world, still half-curled, half-sprawled across the sofa, whispering in low voices and paying absolutely no attention to the rest of the flat at all.
John shakes his head and goes back to the telly, suppressing a snort. As with most of the outrageous things Sherlock puts him through, John finds himself quickly moving through the stages of shock, denial and anger towards a bemused if annoyed sort of acceptance. Of all the people in the world, Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler are cuddling in front of the telly. An hour ago, he would have laughed at such a preposterous idea, but here it is in front of him, and John finds himself strangely glad for his best mate. It is still a bit mind-bogglingly bizarre, yeah, but somehow Sherlock and Irene appear to have made this whatever it is between them work and, glancing over at them again, John finds he can't begrudge them that.
Like a complete nutter, John realizes that he is grinning to himself, trying to suppress laughter again. If Sherlock is actively trying to drive him round the bend, he is putting on a bloody good show of it.
"What?" Sherlock demands quickly, clearly far from as oblivious as John has rather assumed. Of course, this is still Sherlock Holmes.
John waves off the twin expectant looks that are aimed at him, one rather more amused than the other. "Hmm? Oh, nothing." Sherlock does not look convinced. "Just thinking that this has been quite the eventful afternoon."
Irene puts her hand up to cover her laughter, her amused, "Oh John, you don't even know the half of it." Coming out almost on top of Sherlock's protestation that, "There was absolutely no events of note this afternoon, whatsoever, I checked. Twice."
Shaking his head, John snags the paper from the coffee table and decides that a strategic retreat to his room is in order. Much easier to try to make sense of whatever is going on in his living room when it's not in front of him.
The End
Final Notes: Thank you to everyone for your patience and reviews! I am so pleased that my foray into BBC Sherlock has gone over so well. While this piece was a one-shot, I do have many fill-in-the-gap plot bunnies hopping about in my head, and I'm sure at least one of them will explain what Irene and Sherlock have been up to between the end of series 2 and this fic's world.