AN: This is going to be only my third attempt at a lengthy story, dear readers, and I can only hope that I don't disappoint. If you'd be willing to allow me to use you to bounce ideas off of, please drop me a line, because I'm afraid that, unless I have someone to talk through things with, I'll get frustrated with this story and stop writing. In any case, I hope you enjoy this! I may end up taking it down and tweaking it a bit, but we'll see!
The Truth About Sherlock Holmes
Even John could tell that Lestrade was uneasy. He'd asked them to come down to see him (well, really, he'd asked John to drag Sherlock down to see him), but now he was alternating between ruffling through papers at his desk and looking out the window at the people on the street. Sherlock was sitting nonchalantly, pretending not to notice the silent exchange between Donovan and Anderson and Lestrade's rumpled appearance and the way he'd been fiddling with the pens on his desk. John was sitting uncomfortably next to Sherlock, hoping he wouldn't say something ridiculous about Donovan and Anderson.
"Detective Inspector, are you going to tell us what we're here for, or shall I find someone to bring us some tea?" Sherlock's patience was growing thin. Probably he was getting bored. John sighed. Lestrade finally turned around and seemed to steel himself for some unpleasant task.
"Right. What I've called you down for." He picked up a pen, uncapped it, capped it, and put it back down. "I've got...well, kind of a preposition, kind of a request, kind of a job." He cleared his throat, then looked at John and laughed a little. It was rare to see Lestrade looking so out of sorts. Sherlock arched an eyebrow. John also cleared his throat. "So we've got a case. There's a serial killer who seems to be targeting—well..." Another uncharacteristic giggle, seemingly borne more out of nervousness than actual humour. Sherlock and John exchanged a look. "Well, gay couples. Men specifically. And that's why we've called you in. It's not how we usually use your help, but we need you to...well, act as bait for a few weeks." He looked up at the men. "As a couple."
John choked a bit. Sherlock remained nonchalant, much to John's bewilderment. He was about to demand an explanation, a justification for such an unorthodox request, when Sherlock's deep voice spoke up.
"Sure."
The entire world had gone completely bonkers. John shot to his feet and looked between the two men. Surely this was some kind of joke. Lestrade and Sherlock were collaborating in some kind of silly prank in order to...well, he couldn't quite figure out what for, but that was really the only explanation. Lestrade had visibly relaxed a bit upon Sherlock's agreement, though he still looked slightly apprehensive.
"Sure? Don't I get some say in this? Why us? Don't you have people on payroll for this kind of thing? Actors you could call up?" Sensing Sherlock was going to offer no support whatsoever, John redoubled his efforts at glaring Lestrade into confession. The detective shrugged.
"You two are highly public figures. You're well-known and you're in the media all the time, and, to be honest, people already kind of suspect..." He trailed off with a shrug. "If you don't want to do it, that's fine. We just thought..."
"We'll do it." Sherlock's voice sounded again, low and steady with just a trace of amusement. I'm glad you're bloody enjoying this, John thought bitterly. And it was true that they needed money—he hadn't been getting many hours at the surgery and sure Mrs. Hudson was patient, but she would be requiring the rent payment fairly soon...
John sighed and sat back down, looking at Lestrade expectantly. The other man nodded slightly and pushed a case folder across his desk towards them. "We're not entirely sure who's who, but we do have a few suspects. These are the victims..."
The next hour or so was spent learning the specifics of the case. Sherlock was almost uncharacteristically quiet, absorbing every detail with slightly narrowed eyes. John was still having trouble wrapping his mind around the whole thing. He would have to pretend to be gay with Sherlock until they caught the suspect. He had to admit that it did make sense—people were always assuming they were together anyway, and nothing he said or did could convince them otherwise. It was smart on Lestrade's part, and at least he and Sherlock wouldn't have to do much acting, at least in public.
A thought occurred to John, and he could almost feel himself turning pale. Would they have to hold hands? Kiss? Just how deep was this cover going to go? They wouldn't have to act like a couple at home, would they? He stole a glance at Sherlock, who was still engrossed in Lestrade's explanations. Objectively, Sherlock was...well, interesting-looking, at the very least. John found his eyes drawn along his cheekbones, along his jawline, up to the cupid's bow of his upper lip. Without meaning to, he wondered what it'd be like to pull that lip into his mouth, worry it between his teeth and run his tongue along it.
"John."
Shit. Fuck. Both Sherlock and Lestrade were looking at him now, while he gaped open-mouthed at Sherlock's lips. He sat back in his chair a bit and cleared his throat. Why was his mouth suddenly so dry?
"Sorry, what?"
The other two men exchanged a glance, and Lestrade folded his hands. "I asked if you wouldn't mind mentioning something about this on your blog. Not the case itself—your...your new relationship. We want this to be as public as possible. Everyone's got to believe it, including your families and Mrs. Hudson."
"Blog...right!" Why was his brain taking so long to kick into gear? John resisted the urge to smack himself on the forehead—he was looking strange enough as it was. "Yeah, sure. Eh...what, exactly should I write? I wouldn't want to accidentally blow our cover or something."
"I trust you'll think of something." Why was Sherlock taking this so well? It was as though their roles were reversed—Sherlock should be snorting derisively and pacing around the room, playing hard to get so he could watch Lestrade squirm. Instead, he was just...sitting there like a statue. A wonderful statue carved of smooth perfect marble. Oh fuck. Seriously, John, get a grip. He drew in several deep breaths and tried to clear his mind. Fine. It was fine. He was a good actor and Sherlock was a good actor and in no more than a week they would have put another disgusting excuse for a human being behind bars or something. It was worth it. Now he just had to get a grip so that he could get through it.
"You're right." John said with a nod. He was beginning to feel more like himself again. He could think of something.
"Is there anything else?" Sherlock was beginning to sound bored. Bored! Lestrade shook his head and waved them off. This felt strange. Surely they should be debriefed or something, sit through some kind of training or information session. But no—Sherlock was rising to his feet, and John really had no choice but to follow suit. Neither man spoke until they were seated in a cab, and even then it was John who broke the silence.
"What was that all about?" he hissed, with a glance towards the cabbie to make sure he wasn't paying attention to them. Sherlock looked at him almost innocently.
"It's a case. It's money Weren't you just worrying about money a few days ago?"
Sure, Sherlock starts listening to me today of all days, John thought, but said nothing. It was a gray drizzly day, and the people outside the windows of the cab were a sea of gray and black umbrellas. In his head, John was already struggling to compose the blog entry. "Rainbow Flag", "Our Last Vow," "The Problem of London Pride"? "I am happy to finally announce that we have made it internet-official, dear readers: Sherlock Holmes and I are going steady. Madly in love. Lovers. Oh and by the way, if there are any gay-bashers out there, we're totally not just doing this to catch you." He had to reach up to loosen his collar.
After a moment, he felt Sherlock's eyes on the side of his face, and turned to look at him. In the moment before their eyes met, John could see that Sherlock was studying him with as much intensity as he would study a crime scene. His brows were knitted and his lips were tight with concern. Of course, as soon as he noticed that John was looking at him, his blank mask slipped back into place. He smirked a bit and extended his hand. "Are you ready to go inside, darling?" He asked, and wiggled his fingers. John placed his hand on Sherlock's, and his stomach clenched a bit in response. It was, of course, just nerves, not...anything else.
"Can you...not say stuff like that?" John managed, even as Sherlock laced their fingers together. His reply was a bright grin as the taller man slid out of the cab and tugged him out the same door. There was really nothing else John could do but follow Sherlock through the door to their building, trying not to focus too much on how the cool slim hand felt in his and hoping that Mrs. Hudson was tucked safely behind closed doors.
